Saturday is a bad boy.

He is the guy you woke up with and had no idea how he got there.

Your jasmine his sweat.
Your lipstick his lips
The breeze prickling the skin exposed when you kicked off the sheets
Lazy cars honking F notes and G notes
The dotted ceiling making patterns.

Saturday is a cold sun, burning holes in your eyes when he takes off his shirt, flashing his
oily chest that feels like summer and tastes like spring.

Well actually, maybe you donít wake up with Saturday. Maybe you go to bed with Friday, wake up alone, and then at night cheat on Sunday who is busy helping Monday file his taxes.

Nobody loves Monday. And he knows it. So you can hear him spitting maladies about God knows what in the back of the room.

Thursday is Emo because he canít cope with the limbo between break down Wednesday and popular Friday.

And Wednesday hates Friday for the kiss he gave his daughters to make them pregnant with 24 hours who cry for 60 minutes.

The baby daddy had good hair and thatís all they remembered.

That and the broken shoes of yesterday rotting in Sundayís recycling bin.

Tuesday squints through smudged glasses.

You would forget him if he hadnít sneezed a baby between lunch and dinner.

Hell, Geli ainít cleanin that up!

Next week you will let Friday pay for the date,

Eating Italian and watching a dry fountain.

But tonight, you enjoy regretting Saturday.

The windows blush

Until the hint of jasmine and sweat fades.