Wasted Weekends

To be wasted
Is not the same
As to waste.

Wasted weekends
Are just two days
Not put to use.
Not rolled in a joint
And smoked to a haze.
Just Allowed to float
Into purposelessness.

A book finished,
Lazily,
Slumped in bed.
Another started.
Breakfast
All bunged together
In an old, sorry, pot.
Teamed with tea.
Warm, withering,
Well-steeped.
Cigarettes,
Burning holes
In mattresses,
Bed sheets,
Comforters.
Lazily laying ash deposits
In undulating creases.
Movies,
Old and new.
Magazines,
Sunday specials.
Telly reruns,
Predictably reassuring.

All striving
To stave off
Stimulant starvation.
Singularly,
Spectacularly
Simple.

To waste
Is sometimes
Symptomatic
Of
Wisdom
Wistfully won
In wordless swipes
Between
Stasis and storms.