Sunday

 Sunday creeps across the sky
in a slow, lazy, sweep
painting blue above a willow canopy
and slipping silently behind the last hour
where the click on the clock 
marks the beginning of the end
of a long, empty day.

Soon, every day will be Sunday,
and I will sit with my knees to my chin
and whisper where no one hears
drawing circles in the air
and praying for the sandman
to carry me to the brink
and drop me into midweek

Baby, catch me when I fall



july 2010