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.