I awakened him with a soft exhale
One that was on purpose
The timing of which had nothing to do with anything
Except fate and skin and the sixth-sense that is subconsciousness
And though this was his Sunday
That blessed day of rest
Seemed unnecessary, he said
As we sank back
Into Saturday night
Tremendous love, resides inside
As an aria
Weightless and burdensome
How is it that such fullness
This nothing less than aching
Arrives and leaves me
As a ghost on Sunday
An otherwise fine, fine day
And there are no ears to touch?
Walking dogs in the Sunday morning sunshine
Surprises for eachother to find
Maybe pancakes, or a new rocking chair
Building upon last night’s love, for today
Is altogether theirs
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.
There on a Sunday
Putting your fingerprints everywhere
I hoped it was a labor of love
When you looked down at the sawdust
I wish I’d bothered you and asked
Wednesday morning, now
May my late words catch up to you
You take that space
You make it
Like no other
You breathe new life here
I’ll stop in soon
Bring me long shadows
Unorchestrated, lingering glee
Wait while I watch us all exhale
Healed now from last week’s barrage
Listen with me, will you?
The fight-song building
Gather up we, the sun-spilled relief
Before we march again
With our eyes still closed
I feel you whisper to me
Good Sunday morning
Despite the dark
And please take the hand
Despite the dark
I need to wiggle
And find out whether those slacks
Will fit me just so