Some days
like Sundays
the mornings don’t rush
they are not as crazy
as I had wanted them
to be last night
when I had dreamt
of a thousand things
I could accomplish
before the afternoon
but plans go up
in smoke and
Chopin’s nocturnes
play on my phone
I lie in my bed
listening to my mother’s
voice, telling me
to exercise or brush my
teeth and come out
into the living room
for a cup of chai
one more stretch
before I wake
to be about
as much of a man
I could be, making, creating
and attached at the hip
to the watch on my wrist.
Sad because another day
has passed and I’m
still the same as
I used to be, the night
before last, in arms of
an embarrassed fox
recalibrating the past
in search of greater
truths than the ones
revealed in between
the nightly sheets
between two bodies
besieged with yearning
for comprehension and for comfort
in this rush to
make Sundays our day
of rest
or dreading the days
that follow
because we can’t fathom
why we suffer or
why every day
isn’t as bright
or as lazy
as we want it to be
but there is light
emanating from grey skies
and I’m inclined
to colour myself with joy
reading the morning
newspaper.
I’m stressed though
for the end of this
year,
my friend’s
on a yacht and she
is headed to Amsterdam
to wait out the winter
see the tulips bloom
and casually remark
how much Wordsworth
got it wrong. Her yacht
is in deeper waters than
she is, while I’m
on land and dreaming
of golden sands
to pass through my hair
and declare me their
eternal fidelity, so that
no one may see what
I see
the beautiful irrelevance
of time and all his patronizing
friends, to a cow grazing in
a green field, to a crow flying
up high, to a river standing still
to a man begging for more
than just his meagre share
in the grand scheme of things.
Some days
like Sundays
are strangely short
but the mornings
last long, longer
than a reverie.
A heathen poet 