Day’s End at Week’s Ending

	When the week is gone I count my labors,
		my ledger holding hours and pages of words,
	I can only wonder at what these hours have cost me.

	Saturday is my sole leisure,
		my walks criss-cross the town,
			in greasy twilight I return home
		with the sun's warmth buried
			into the back of my neck.

	For supper I ate warm bread,
	 tomatoes from the garden,
	  simmering pottage
	   and several glasses of lemonade.

	The fading orange glow of sunset
	 peers in through the open windows,
	  as I saunter stoop-shouldered
	   to the back porch and sit
	    at the top step.

	Her legs wrap around my waist
	 as she pours a basin of tepid water
	  over my head and rubs soap
	   into my scalp with strong
	    bread-kneading fingers. 

	The smell of her arms is sweet grass and perfumed sweat,
	 she leans in close and I feel her heart
throb through the thin material of her shirt.
	A great weariness fills my chest, and I long for sleep,
	 the warmth of the day has left its imprint
on my skin and soul on a brisk Spring day.

	My eyes close
		as the stars creep
			out from behind
			a darkening blue curtain,
			a toddler sits
		at my feet and tugs
	at my long toes, giggling.
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