Days like Sunday

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


I’m stressed though

for the end of this


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.

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