Friday afternoons
the joy of Friday afternoons knowing that
it will only be 3 or 4 more hours
before our shifts finish
and we can walk out of there
with our minds tingling
and all of the wild blood
everywhere
the sudden buzz
that ignites at around 3 or 4 o’clock every Friday afternoon
like somebody has just flicked on a switch
the laughter and jokes
that get a little bit louder, a little bit
riskier
as we can smell the weekend
now marching uncontrollably forwards
just on the other side of that little hill
the beauty we start to feel inside ourselves proud
that our minds
and the fingertips that are a part of our hands
have driven a sword through another one of their weeks
without this body they are attached to
losing its job
those Friday afternoons
when the jobs that kept pouring down onto our screens all day
suddenly become a trickle,
when the buzz of having to double-up and treble-up
and weave jobs into patterns that work
is replaced by the buzz of the upcoming weekend
leaving a control room full of men so heated up by anticipation
that all of the atoms inside us start to move about faster
until they get so close to boiling point
that we can see for the first time
that the Earth is now round again
that we can see for the first time
why the apple fell onto Newton’s lap
that we can see Mark Anthony’s face
while he was giving it to Cleopatra
feel the fingers of Beethoven
moving over those keys
until it all comes so perfectly together
the moment we put our foot outside that door
and walk up that road
feeling like Beowulfs
out looking for our Grendels
Martin Hayes was born in London in 1966 and has lived in the Edgware Road area all of his life. He has worked in the courier industry for over 30 years. He has had two collections of poems published, When We Were Almost Like Me, and, The Things Our Hands Once Stood For.