Weekends are subterfuges in love, desire, pain. They are the extra toppings on the platter of life. Primroses bloom on Saturday evenings. Cigarette stubs flood Saturday evenings. They lie on ash-trays and etherize them. Mouth-watering delicacies arrive in baking and serving trays. A well-trimmed beard or a perfect bun witness frivolousness and gaiety. A Jay whistles nearby. Its mating call suits the ambience. The chopped air calls for celebration, the French-fried noon -- can you celebrate denial. Can you play hopscotch with million stars on a perfect night-sky. They stoop and rise to the rhythm of life.
Sundays are meant for figs and olives in oil. Wearing a tan is a jewel. Cooking stories of tulips, lettuce spinach blooms on a half-baked noon is sumptuous. Flurries and pastries join the row. Surrogate dreams come in sugar-brown candies that melt in the mouth. Dreams hibernate -- I made you up in my mind -- the world drops dead, stony eyes remain. I confide in them. Those stubborn dreams capsize ... my adulterous heart handles felony with care.