A Week Less


The end of the week 
would see me fly, 
a get back to home
which I love dear,
mind not the heat and sun,
I die to see my home,
the trees and plants in a row
flutter and bow,
the people who work for me
the milkman, the newspaper vendor,
the grocer and the postman,
not to miss anyone 
greet with a warm smile,
 their eyes glow with joy.

A few days more to wait.
Back in my home, I will 
be. The bed and the chair 
beckon me. I will pass my fingers 
through the folds. The grandfather 
clock will chime with joy. The paintings 
need  dusting , the brass artifacts 
a polish, the tapestries a wash
the floors a gentle mop, while the furniture 
has to be rubbed to regain lustre.
All these are a tuppence, home coming
being a rejuvenation of mind and feel.

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