Tumbling in the heat of weekly work,
My thoughts are teased away by blowing wind
And scatter who-knows-where into the breeze.
Moments that are left behind are bald and bare,
Steadily thinning to the point of threadlessness--
Hardly enough to wrap around myself.
Eventually I find where they collect,
Mashed together up against the screen
Of two o'clock p.m. on Saturday.
The weekend is the lint trap of my life.