What human worker bee,
humming within the drone
the machine drone
of corporate America,
doesn’t long for the
giddy taste of Friday?

In fact, the week is lost
dreaming for that day.
Monday pulls away
from its heavy glue –
slowly, drearily –
while Thursday rushes forth,
and daydreams leap ahead,
jumping at the chance
to play on Friday.

In fact, we live
in hope of Friday,
in loss of Friday,
wasting our lives
every day but Friday.

And on Friday?
Generally we look to forget it:
beer, wine, whatever.
So I guess, ultimately,
at birth we’re already dead.