You carry on your shoulders
the dense lead of the entire week:
leftovers, sweepings, stains.
What is crooked needs to be straightened,
what is soiled,
what has been overlooked,
what has a button missing
devolves onto you.
Saturday, you appear to me always gritty and brown,
offering stones to pick up,
pitted and ancient as your chore basket.
Perhaps you’re a fulcrum,
or even a concrete weir.
At night the flood will come and the spillway
breached by the wild river of the human.