The world is vacant
this early Sunday morning
except for the newspaper deliverer
and the liquor store
and the customer who waited for 6am.
Mostly people are inside
sleeping off hangovers
slumbering in a warm bed
of post-coital narcosis
lone desperation
passed out at a kitchen table
splayed with overdue bills
and trepidation.
Some greet the day with reluctance
some will ride bikes
and some will never know
Sunday morning exists.
As I drive my daughter
to the early church service
I pass stray tumbleweeds
the occasional roaming coyote
and a multitude of other
holy beings,
all unaware
that it is Sunday morning
or that it is January
or that it is 2009
but they are completely alive.
They are also ignorant
of their enviable
blissful
silent
existence.
"of post-coital narcosis" ... I keep reading this as "post-coital narcissus," which I think is pretty :)
ReplyDeleteThis is excellent. I especially like this section:
"As I drive my daughter
to the early church service
I pass stray tumbleweeds
the occasional roaming coyote
and a multitude of other
holy beings"
Too many travel through life without living, sad....
ReplyDeleteStellar!
ReplyDeleteinteresting poem... Reminds me of Kris Kristopherson's song Sunday Morning Coming Down!
ReplyDeleteDwight
The image of those desperate waiting for the liquor store to happen in contrast to those sleeping or those going to church... Sunday can mean so much for each of us.
ReplyDelete