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what are you doing this weekend
they ask, as if
weekends are for doing things:

wake up without an alarm
around ten, order and eat delivery
mcdonalds breakfast, feel guilty
for a few minutes and get over it quickly,
do laundry, wash and dry the weekly fruit,
watch the nfl draft while texting with oldest friend
take a shower and head to the mall with my youngest,
listen to women punk bands all the way there,
chat about marvel movies, eat a cheese plate,
look at some cute tops, buy a new html cable,
pyjama pants and brioche hamburger buns,
up to a movie, popcorn (sweet and salty mix), m&ms,
grape soda— whisper to each other in the dark,
more punk songs on the way home, “joan jett was my first crush,”
make illuminating confessions,
the trees along the freeway so beautiful every time,
finish a book, start a new one, tinker with the guitar,
quick pasta dinner, a movie on the couch,  
a chocolate cookie with peanut butter chips and sparkling water,
put her to bed, write this poem, and crawl
into bed for an early quiet saturday night.

what are you doing this weekend
they ask, as if
weekends are for doing things.