Listen to me performing this poem here.

Friday is a game of car boot Jenga.
It is ‘Don’t forget this’, and ‘Ooh let’s take that’.
Friday is a crash course of this year’s playlist on the M60.
It is a 6 foot butterfly with a top hat waving you into Baldersby Park.
It is ‘Where are the tent poles?’, ‘Who’s got the mallet’ and
‘Look, why don’t you take the kids to wander and I’ll fix these bent pegs’.
Friday is the sound of a carbonated beverage opening
and the hug of a camping chair.
Friday is greeting new stalls and smiling at familiar ones.
It’s getting your bearings, a Hoptical Illusion,
loosening your hips to Brooklyn disco/funk on a smiling Thirsk Hill.

Saturday is exploration.
It is rolling in the straw of feral farm,
making marble mazes out of broken guttering,
bumping into Janet Jackson floating from the horns of a roaming brass band.
Saturday is macaroni, cheese or wood fired, pizza, or Samosa chaat
or pakora medleys or loaded fries or all of the above.
It’s popping the bubbles from strangers.
Saturday is constantly reviewing the timetable.
It’s constantly losing the timetable.
It’s realising you actually know more of the headliner’s songs
than you gave yourself credit for.

Sunday is acclimatised.
It’s knowing who, what, where and when.
Sunday is a pint of milk from the corner shop.
It’s no longer bothering with a wet wipe under the armpits.
It’s giving names to the crescent moons of muck underneath your fingernails.
Sunday is apple crumble for breakfast, a house brick of fudge for lunch,
whatever your favourite meal from yesterday was for tea.
Sunday is the final nail in Tinkertown.
It’s swapping numbers with new friends,
seeing the world from a Ferris wheel.
It is everything (everything).

Monday is the realisation that the real world still exists.
But that can wait because
Monday is a flat-grassed galaxy peppered with dried-toothpaste stars.
It is the crêpe stall feeding the packing masses.
It is rolling children flattening, the last air pockets of exhaling tents.
It’s a trolley excited to fulfil its destiny of
carrying a whole weekend back to the car.
Monday is ‘let’s meet up before the next one’.
It’s high-fiving volunteers.
It’s searching for earlybird tickets for next year in the queue to leave.
Monday is salutating the portaloos, thanking them for their service.

This poem is a part of the Unsolicited Poems Collection – a series of poems written by Carl Burkitt to celebrate things in life that have given him joy.

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