Friday mornings are my favourite: Sequestered under heated coverlings Room darkened beneath my squinched lids, The last remnants of my subconscious Rebelling against full-on awakening, Pulling me back into that last dream... What was it about? Where was I? I want to go back in! Surrendering, I allow the bright light into my bedroom With the slit of one eye, Then the other. Ah, glorious sun, even you can't force my rise! I can lie here as long as I wish (or until my bladder screams). I can have as many cups of chai as I desire, With extra honey! Read what I will, Write, create, all in my purple jammies; The fuzzy, warm ones with little white bows And juvenile polka-dots. The squirrels chitter: "Get Up!" Far-away trains sound their long alto: "Time!" It's after 8:30 Even the sound of traffic is sleeping in. My Friday mornings are free, And I refuse to wash my face until noon, (She cries defiantly!) Another hour of reading, Then perhaps I'll greet the day upright. But for now, time for the second cup.