On Saturdays I breathe my losses
Through a square of purple silk—
God awaiting, always hoping,
Gives me honey, gives me milk.
On Saturdays I peg the washing
All along the blistered line—
Lunch consists of bread and butter,
Pickled onions and white wine.
On Saturdays I retire early
Curled beneath an afghan rug—
Reading racy worn-out novels,
Drinking cocoa from the jug.