Birdsongs on a Sunday Morning


Sunday mornings
are later and longer
they linger like a hazed fever
choking up the clock-face
the spaces between each
clicking second is pausing
to muse



On Sunday mornings
the last-minute chortles are
serenading the end of idleness
the closure of the hedonist's
playground looms and we are
lining up our affections
into calendared scaffolds,
singing brokenly at the top
(of our voices)



the grinning god under the cooking-gas
icon is my tentative timekeeper
the days are flimsy tearaways lurking
subserviently at his feet
he is beckoning, telling
the common-day singers to leave
now the rounded orb of some immortal eye
is acrylic, pregnant with saline water
---Sunday mornings are not for
our gods!




a repetitive orchestra is pulling
its everyday music by the neck
we will culminate, at least,
in a rousing finale



Bittersweet Sundays
are comic tragedies
lazily destined to a youthful demise



When it is gone
there will still be birdsongs;
when the birdsongs are gone
there will still be anticipation
we will move from hour to hour
like the intoxicated patient
who is euphoric and lost forever
expecting to live happily
ever after



the birdsongs on Sunday mornings
are later and longer but
our everyday music is pulling us
by the neck and we cannot afford
to stop