Friday Poem by Ray Mesa

A wide window I see, the windows and those green, green trees. They control my mind, they strive my sight and they lock it in stance. The Friday news aloud, to the sad student clowns, as they look like they are working, as they are staring at the clock. The flocks of feet do tremble, minutes to the 3rd hour, it’s not a brand new day, it’s just Friday. My sights are fluxed, my healing cut, and I just can’t concrete on a single thought. The weekend’s turning, sleeping in the morning, and all I want to do is relax. Much be prepared, unfinished homework, pushed in chairs, but lest it be written, I won’t work 60 seconds to three. I’ll enjoy my weekend like you say, for it’s a combination of freedom and ecstasy. Those green, green trees appear over head and I am able to work without a pencil in my hand or a damn, damn book. The sun, she’s shining, in stance a’ climbing, I am so alive I could run. And I will, when that clock strikes three, that engulfing bell does ring, my feet will sprint, and I’ll see you in 63 hours and 30 minutes.