The wine of uncharted days,
Their unsteady stance against the working world,
The intense intoxication of nothing to be done,
A day off,
The dance of the big-hearted dog
In us, freed into a sudden green, an immense field:
Off we go, more run than care, more dance—
If a polka could be done not in a room but straight
Ahead, into the beautiful distance, the booming
Sound of the phonograph weakening, but our legs
Getting stronger with their bounding practice:
This day, that feeling, drunkenness
Born of indecision, lack of focus, but everything
Forgiven: Today is a day exposed for what it is,
A workday suddenly turned over on its back,
Hoping to be rubbed.
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