Saturdays


Like Saturdays should be.

Clouds of rain linger

turn the garden into mist

there is no view

where the ocean used to be

is a long queue

of fog, one after another

waiting for you to be bothered

by the nonexistent view

but secretly, you don't care

because behind closed doors

is where you hide

the fire makes a crackling sound

a bottle of red wine

is emptied under loud laughter

philosophical talks and insights

because inside

we wash away the earth

from our hands

cut the carrots we picked

make the meat sizzle

pet the dog

cover ourselves with blankets

tell stories until

the day is gone.

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