“Weekend”—how I scoff at that archaic term,
I’m not sure—but I think
it refers to a time many days past
when periods of work were measured
By these things called “weeks.”
And—supposedly—there would be this “break”
where workers would get a chance to “rest, ”
thus bringing an “end” to the “week” of work.
Now, I understand “work, ”
but these other words are unfamiliar to me.
Am I to believe there were stops?
That there was something other than ceaseless labor?
That days could be so easily grouped
into ones of productivity,
and ones of relaxation,
rather than appearing as an on-going sea of tasks,
a blur of endless obligations?
Could there really have ever existed
a world where I would have time to do as I please?
From where I sit in my paddle boat,
battling the waves with my oars,
gazing at the vast expanse of ocean,
I do not believe it to be so.
This “weekend” is a fantasized idealization,
a utopian idea, impossible to exist
within the walls of reality…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem