Hey, this Saturday?

It is not much to reach, but I will always decline

The road along is so beautiful, and the trees so fine

I rather visit those little bars on the way, forget time

There is nothing more beautiful than idleness and good wine

"How about Friday for a drink", I asked a lovely lass

She at first over'agreed and then decided to pass

I still went through that Friday night and poured wine to my glass

After all between women and wine, wine will always be steadfast

The morning that came after, I decided to not rue

About the hangover, a binge I got to do

I looked into the morning sun, and the October dew

I wondered if we'd met, her legs would leave my thoughts skewed. 

Sunday came by as Pune called, I packed to go to work

Another day in a fool's paradise, but work does have a perk

A paycheck, I should add is the only part of this that really doesn't irk

So here I am and this Monday's fine, this week is without mirk

I will be back home this Friday night, 

and find my self again

Maybe then I can sun dry tomatoes, if it has stopped to rain

The world always remembers a winner, to me such is disdain

I am happy forgotten if the very night, for remembrance I don't feign.

# On "Hey, This Saturday?"

There's something light about this poem, isn't there? Like it's written by someone who's worked out that plans are just... suggestions, really.

## The Movement Through Days

The speaker keeps letting things slide. Saturday? Too far to bother reaching when the road itself is lovely enough – those bars, those trees. Why treat arrival as the point when the journey's already good? It's an odd way to live, but there's logic to it. Idleness and wine, he says, and you believe him.

Then Friday. A drink was proposed, got agreed to, then cancelled. Fair enough. He went anyway, poured his own glass, and there's that line about wine being steadfast. Not bitter, just... factual. People flake, wine doesn't. Both options were fine, one worked out.

## The Wondering Bit

Saturday morning he's looking at October sun and dew, thinking about how things might've gone differently. Her legs, he says – pretty direct, that. But it's not longing, more like idle curiosity. What if. Then the thought passes. That's it.

Sunday means Pune, means work. He calls it a fool's paradise but acknowledges the paycheck makes it tolerable. Monday arrives without fuss. The week's clear ahead.

By Friday he'll be home, maybe sun-drying tomatoes if the rain's stopped. Maybe not. The detail's specific but not attached – it could happen, or something else could.

## What Holds It Together

The last bit's interesting. He doesn't care about being remembered, doesn't want to perform for memory's sake. Winners get remembered, but he's fine being forgotten if that means living without pretence.

Throughout, there's this texture of things being optional. The date, the destination, the tasks, even the self-finding he mentions. Nothing's gripped too tightly. Things appear, things dissolve, other things fill the space.

It's not quite carelessness – more like... flexibility? The poem documents a week where plans shifted and life carried on regardless, and the speaker genuinely didn't mind. The wine was there, the sun came up, work happened, Friday will come round again.

Strange way to move through time, perhaps. But there's ease in it.