TRINA STOLEC
Saturday Rain


It isn't supposed to rain on Saturday
You're supposed to mow the lawn
while I pull crabgrass and milkweed from the rose bed,
sweep clippings off the sidewalk.
I'm supposed to pretend to chase you with a broom
while you pretend to be afraid I'll catch you.

It isn't supposed to rain on Saturday.
I'm supposed to pack fried chicken
in the woven wooden basket.
You're supposed to slip in a bottle of wine,
forget the glasses, but not the corkscrew.
We're supposed to drive to the canal,
sit on a checked blanket
and pretend no one sees us sneak a kiss.

It isn't supposed to rain on Saturday.
We're supposed to open the house to a summer breeze,
hide dirty white under a coat of fresh paint,
splatter each other as much as the walls,
wind up in a tickling match on the plastic covered rug,
me with paint on my nose.

It isn't supposed to rain on Saturday.
We're supposed to walk to the park,
dodging Schwins on the path,
watch for deer we'll never find,
our locked pinkies keeping the other near.

It isn't supposed to rain on Saturday.