saturday matter day what a day

young prince sleeps till after dawn
the poet still silent as I wake
the young visitor
arises after me
sneaking around the house
waiting to wake another
he is the cousin
the dark haired laughing man
small and fast
we have an uneasy truce between us
a thin line of tolerance
a ever present watchful eye aimed upon each other
so returns to fitfully early waking
playing with a battery powered candle
which disappears with my footsteps on the floorboards
but soon his young compnions have all joined him
the morning passes in cafes n papers
cleaning and music
more coffee
restfulness
the clam clatter of blogging
children's laughter
then the dark haired boy
returns home
and we continue
I wonder
for him
what we made
of our charades

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