You tell me “don’t work.” On Sundays,
We have parties and mudslides.
Mondays, you work until nine;
I have last night’s pasta and wine.
Tuesdays, you go to work early
While I stay home and sleep in.
Wednesdays you work late again.
Thursdays, I go to the market
For Fridays’ meals with the boss.
You say weekends are made for shopping.
So now that we are at Macy’s,
You sit on the sofa with overstuffed arms,
Sharp elbows poking the cushions,
Raising your feet to the leather hassock,
Leaning your back
Into the red, plush pillow.
Looking at the salesman nearby,
You smile and tell him we’ll take it.
Copyright 1993, Katherine Gotthardt