SATURDAY
Saturday, Saturday, Saturday, what
do you think about Saturday? It’s flat.
The grey sky reminds us of traveling
and in the wind the birds are eddying.
Dissatisfied, if you were somewhere else—
Utopia—you would be hearing bells;
you would feel mellow in the fruitful sun,
fulfilled, in the prime of life, having fun.
Such weather only comes to remind us
through memories that it’s all behind us.
Should we take a newspaper to breakfast
or will the headlines make us feel feckless
with their inane arbitrary redundance,
offering war and scandal in abundance?
So lazy that pleasures are overkill,
yet we can’t sleep all day, there’s time to fill,
and too many naps seems enervating
as an option to the girl you’re dating.
Tennis is out, and games are not your thing;
conversation doesn’t feel promising.
Exposed to Saturday’s mood of malaise,
exhausted by the accumulated weekdays,
this hurry to be in Sunday’s milling crowds
which move like corpses under viscous shrouds:
a great dull procession from Buenos Aires
up to Texas and over to Paris
and back under the patio roof that is leaking,
like a voyeur behind a Chinese screen peeking
at no one, like a bright flag that is furled,
our banner of freedom: this Saturday world!
GOSSIPS
Just because I’m a coward
doesn’t mean the gossips are right
with their concrete notions
but watch them build the trivial
with such care,
making complicated fine points
woven into, of all things,
knots,
you guessed it, to secure.
Bluntness is the only
way to say
to them they are inferior
and that you
are not a statistic.
Yes, I am also thinking:
why am I here?
To be cold goes nowhere
and so you are involved
in the humid entanglement.
The most horrible truth
is when they are right
and you are vulnerable that night,
all because you have forgotten your comb.
THE SMILING MAN
The smiling man
who straightened up
when he noticed
I saw him smiling.
“Well, I’m sorry
I put that
dour expression
there on your face
that’s so beguiling!”
And he said
in a whisper
so I couldn’t hear
as he walked on
down the mall:
“You didn’t put
that dour expression
there—
don’t worry—
it’s been there
since I was small.”
When he told
me that,
I felt better
and I sat
thinking where I’d
like to go.
I thought for
a moment I
might follow him,
an interesting man
to know.
But I knew
that he’d be
out of sight
by now
and I didn’t
want to see
him straightened up right,
anyhow.
David Francis has produced six music albums, one of poetry, Always/Far: a chapbook of lyrics and drawings (Oilcan Press), Poems from Argentina (Kelsay Books), and New York Revery (Cyberwit.net). He has written and directed the films, Village Folksinger (2013) and Memory Journey (2018). He lives in New York.
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