Eager to honor Sunday’s silence
Today’s truth shall advance with a gentle, sweeping motion
Holding at bay metal-and-plastic grind against concrete
Until Monday beckons me, eager again
Pancakes on a Sunday morning were never supposed to be so loud.
The only sounds I’d predicted were newspapers unfolding, rustling pages after an appropriate period of time.
Harp-laced sunshine musically poured from the orange juice pitcher to your glass, my son.
Cozy, fluffy, buttermilk breaths, exhaling at long last, I wanted for us.
But the week had gotten the better of me.
Instead you heard man’s demands and the echoes of entitled children.
Screeching chairs against cold floor tiles and anxiety-producing forced air overhead.
Waste and plastic and a bit of excess.
But there was the blessed color, wasn’t there?
Tell me you noticed, beautiful.
The smiles of the Sunday workers, employed by capitalism, but still genuine and holding their own.
The crowd beside us in Sunday best, good news and gospel aglow.
Brothers and sisters we are.
Take that from the morn, my child.
This lovely, winding, seasonal scene of our lives.
And the time we were given and allowed ourselves.
In New York I know
It is an hour later
Here there are souls a swayin’ now
To White Rabbit, Creeque Alley
Golden oldie Boomer ilk
Some defiant steps
Of a generation
Keeping me awake
But ill-equipped to face Monday Monday