Could Saturdays ever be about anything more than plucking unwanted hairs, staring at dirt on a floor, and reading prophecies in the shadows of a coffee mug?
I wonder why my Muse only visits on Saturdays…
when I should be sweeping, cooking, appointment-booking
when I could be watching, note-taking, lesson plan-making for a regular Tuesday.
Doesn’t matter where you are. When she comes, like a visitor in the night, you bow.
She calls it all to dance:
the hairs that are by now gone,
the dirt that has by now accumulated,
the prophecies that are, by now, fulfilled.
Somehow the messy becomes the art and you realize: somehow, you played a part.
Or did you?