This Transient Confetti
The working week
working its way home,
as I slip through
in celebration,
my hands
absently pull and shred,
the last throes of stress.
And when it’s done,
I scatter them
for the waning sun,
my summer friend,
to catch and
turn in fading light,
then let them fall –
I feel no guilt
for this transient confetti,
left for no one
but the weekend drunks
and scrums.
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