Weekend Unleashed
Weekend arrives like a cheeky mate
who rings your bell at sparrow-light,
careless of your hair-tangled dreams
and the kettle’s half-sleeping whistle.
On the back deck, dew glistens
like a dozen tiny sausages left out overnight—
I shuffle in thongs, rescue them
from their chilly silver crowns.
The barbie slumbers with cold snags,
but I prod it awake with a stubby in hand,
vowing grand plans (“I’ll sort the garden!”)
that wilt faster than my second flat-white.
A magpie serenades the washing line,
where socks perform their own tango—
and I, ruler of this sunburnt patch,
declare laundry day a national sport.
Afternoon drapes its lazy silhouette:
an icy river of lemonade,
footy blaring from the telly,
and the cat’s solemn judgement of my third nap.
Dusk spills its pink confetti across corrugated tin,
I perch on a stool—hero of my own backyard—
toasting the sky with whatever’s left in the stubby,
and cheer to weekends: small rebellions in good company.
.