Once a Week
To be eccentric every moment takes too much from me,
so I limit my oddness to every Saturday.
On that day my zany hats come out from their hiding,
anxious for one day a week they get to go outsiding.
I don my feathered boa and stick on rhinestone lashes.
I wear my fringe-tiered flapper skirts with neon colored sashes.
I hop onto my bicycle, my cockatoo inside
the wire basket on the front and take him for a ride.
When we drive by the playground, at first the children balk,
but I pique their expectations as we have a little talk.
The cockatoo speaks bird talk and does a little jig.
Then he does impressions of a donkey and a pig.
He does a little rap routine that every child loves
and then I don my riding hat and my driving gloves
and pedal off to other adventures up the street,
expressing eccentricity to everyone I meet.
Later in the afternoon, I pedal us back home,
turning up the driveway by the garden gnome.
I put my bike into the shed, the bird behind his bars.
I put my rhinestone eyelashes in their storage jars.
I strip off all my finery and pull on my old jeans.
Microwave a hot dog. Open a can of beans.
I sink into my Barclay lounger, flip on the T.V.
turning once again into the ordinary me,
having exorcised my cravings for eccentricity
The prompts for today are expectation, moment and eccentric: