After a week that saw work rise with full force,
Unwanted comments about the hardness of whatever
From a work colleague, and an old lady
Putting her hand just above my butt and saying,
“Don’t back up, I coming in,”
I thought my Friday morning run
Might be simple and quiet,
An easy jaunt away from the weirdness
Surrounding my job.

Then, unrelated partners,
Moments of whim,
Conflagrations of inappropriateness,
And expressions of people’s overdeveloped
Senses of importance rose with the sun.

Friday became hypocritical…
Here they are,
The different things, out of sequence,
There for the hash taggers,
There for posterity,
Not posteriors, no matter the copy machine harassments.

I.

Ex mayor political expertise
At using hashtag comments with impunity
As needle moving provocations
To get hugs without allowing
Juice to get all over his dapper threads.

II.

Cold air brings nipples out
With their underdeveloped toughness
Succumbing to the abrasive ways
Of supercharged fabrics
That scrape and chaff
Like cheese graters on blocks of cheddar.

III.

Old men, no longer oozing testosterone
Angry at their inability to rise,
Getting mad at everything, unable to appreciate
The sweat and all juice has to offer.
Instead, dude should chill, age like a fine whisky,
Retaining its bite, curating a fire
So when the old plumbing finally falters
And the days are few,
Happiness still has a chance

IV.

“White people do that shit!”
The quote of the morning,
An observation straight from Puerto Rico
Said in the way only a Latina could express
About the ways of marriage and divorce
In the fairer skinned culture.
I would never dare to deny, nor suggest about others
With the same toned descriptions
For my people have long lost the right
To make stereotypical jokes
Outside of our troubled history.

V.

Duran Duran chimed in, “Mouth is alive, juices like wine,”
Just as Snoop did, offering,
“Rollin down the street, smokin indo, sipping gin and juice,”
Innuendo ruling the morning,
Enema inducing bike seat discussion
Peppered between the later-in-the-morning work day traffic.

That was enough for me,
Twelve hours later, I fell asleep sitting up on the couch.
Can’t wait for next week.

Finally, Friday,
A short, long weekend
Followed up
By what willk surely be
A too short weekend.

I wonder what it’s like
When everyday is a Saturday,
Retirement,
An ellusive vixen
Tempting and teasing
Offering the goods,
But when you get there
It’s all nasty.

Ah, whatever,
I’m too young for that,
Friday, that’s all today is.

A transient crowd is passing through

The kingdom’s one and only food court

While the band puts their journey’s on pause

With jazzy, jammy, and bluesy effects

Meant to ease the week away.

The patrons nosh on a variety of foods,

Brisket, burritos, burgers, and pie

Kind of in shock at the range

The band has brought to their home.

I’m taking it in,

Proud to have contributed to the show

As my son is playing guitar,

Killing it with his band mates

Dropping the notes and beats

I love hearing.

It’s kind of crazy

When people walk by

And I brag a little about the guitar guy

With a Hawaiian shirt and bending strings

That fits so well with the popping drums,

And massaging bass.

Ah, Friday…

Pepped out, man
Not a bit of energy left to give.
That blue sky and cool breeze
Took my last bit of interest
In this long week away.
So now I think,

Make a run?
Pass and go to the game?
Forget both and just hang?

I think I’ll tap out
Because this couch is me
Einstein is tight
And I think I’ve given all I can
This week.

Sure this day lets me know 

Sunday is in sight,

But it also let’s me know

Nine to five is gone for awhile.

Today while the grind was grinding,

The conversation was typical,

Distracting and banal,

With twists of perspective for the shock

To spur interest in well worn topics.

Ole Joel crept in offering wisdom that gave us a spiritual hall pass

For the transgressions of our unworthy souls.

A one sided conversation of winter’s arrival

Implored us to drink from the throne’s cup,

While condiments and office supply tools added

Dimensions to discussions where our office had never gone before.

Kirk and Spock would have been proud,

If not totally flabbergasted

And in need of a Schaefer or Frank’s soda

To wash it all down.

Certainly, a poem of office high jinks 

Requires a certain presence to understand,

So to anyone on the outside,

Know this Friday was a most excellent day

And hopefully your work place

Had as much fun as we did.