Weekend Living


From the crack of dawn, till the sun goes down,

I go on slogging,

In an office with a posh address but missing windows,

A slave to the necessity of day-to-day subsisting.


At lunch, in the cafe, with people I call ‘friends’,

I keep on boasting,

About how ‘set’ my life is really,

When the enormity of it, leaves me almost gasping!


In my mind, my gut, and the very core of my being,

A coin I keep on tossing,

For the possibility of eventual gain,

Shouldn’t I, these short-term hankerings be sacrificing?


From Nobel or Pulitzer, to Grammy or Oscar,

I could win anything,

But cursed with a weak stomach,

In me lies dormant, the appetite for risk-taking. 


So alone in the crowd, in the bus after work,

All I can do is some dreaming,

For the swish of the magic wand, or a miracle,

That will set me free from the vice of ‘weekend living’.

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed