Weekend Glory

Weekend Glory

by Maya Angelou

Some clichty folks
don't know the facts,
posin' and preenin'
and puttin' on acts,
stretchin' their backs.

They move into condos
up over the ranks,
pawn their souls
to the local banks.
Buying big cars
they can't afford,
ridin' around town
actin' bored.

If they want to learn how to live life right
they ought to study me on Saturday night.

My job at the plant
ain't the biggest bet,
but I pay my bills
and stay out of debt.
I get my hair done
for my own self's sake,
so I don't have to pick
and I don't have to rake.

Take the church money out
and head cross town
to my friend girl's house
where we plan our round.
We meet our men and go to a joint
where the music is blue
and to the point.

Folks write about me.
They just can't see
how I work all week
at the factory.
Then get spruced up
and laugh and dance
And turn away from worry
with sassy glance.

They accuse me of livin'
from day to day,
but who are they kiddin'?
So are they.

My life ain't heaven
but it sure ain't hell.
I'm not on top
but I call it swell
if I'm able to work
and get paid right
and have the luck to be Black
on a Saturday night.

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Miscellany

Maya-angelou


Other poems by Maya Angelou (read randomly)


Her arms semaphore fat triangles,
Pudgy hands bunched on layered hips
Where bones idle under years of fatback

The free bird leaps
on the back of the win
and floats downstream

There are some nights when
sleep plays coy,
aloof and disdainful.

I note the obvious differences
in the human family.
Some of us are serious,

When love is a shimmering curtain
Before a door of chance
That leads to a world in question

We die,
Welcoming Bluebeards to our darkening closets,
Stranglers to our outstretched necks,

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home

They went home and told their wives,
that never once in all their lives,
had they known a girl like me,

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt

The highway is full of big cars
going nowhere fast
And folks is smoking anything that'll burn

Beloved,
In what other lives or lands
Have I known your lips

You drink a bitter draught.
I sip the tears your eyes fight to hold
A cup of lees, of henbane steeped in chaff.

When you come to me, unbidden,
Beckoning me
To long-ago rooms,

Curtains forcing their will
against the wind,
children sleep,

One innocent spring
your voice meant to me
less than tires turning

There is no warning rattle at the door
nor heavy feet to stomp the foyer boards.
Safe in the dark prison, I know that

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