That title has been sitting in the draft file for longer than I can recall. I like it, but I have no more words to follow. I should tell you about drafts. Little do you know that not everything written for one angry anthropoid makes it to you. As of this writing there are 26 unpublished entries, each with its own reason to exist that way. Some are drunken rambles which upon refection in sober morning light would have proved embarrassing. Some are reactions to news items which I placed there to edit later, but by some happenstance didn’t get around to until well past the stories relevance. And some are like that title, lines I find amusing, but useless. So, by means of clean up, and keeping this thing breathing while I focus on book writing, here is a random thing from the draft pile:
(The follow poem appears in a later posting on its own. Sorry for the repetition)
Saturday Blues:

Saturday’s are the worst, especially after nothing doing Friday nights. It sits there like bad road. It sits there with all possibilities open, but none seem interesting. It sits there with tabula rasa head and lazy, hungover fingers. No one to call, no place worth walking to, it’s Saturday and its perpetual alone. I smiled at the smell of stale cigarettes this morning, walking to get coffee, the promise of something familiar. The quick check girl never remembers me. I remember her tattoo during the rain soaked walk back to the anonymity of home. Saturday’s are the worst, and another hour passes with nothing to speak of, no new words, no new relaxation. A simple anxiety that all there is left are the moments till casual conversations at bars, subtle flirtations over coffee and the five days of faking it in between.