Saturday, a priest amongst days.

These poor hands receive the descent of man,

My rightful share in an illegal age.

 

I am a writer, not a fighter,

Searching old stories hidden under rock,

Of how angels never made it underground,

 

Then embracing an eleven-o-clock break

To consider whiff-waff and dildrams.

Don’t ask me what I mean.

 

Instead, consider grandmother’s glass eye

And her three hours of secret history.

The nanny state made me. I intend to enjoy it.