Sunday, you rotten bitch
everything is closed
and there’s nowhere to go
even if shit was open
Roger’s wasted
so is Zack
some guy
is blowing
his lawn clippings
into the street
my wife is sick
but she doesn’t want to
admit it
the cops are trying to
make their traffic ticket quotas
and I keep wondering about myself—
where are you?
where are you?
what happened?
I’m gonna need a tall glass of water
for my dehydrated soul
and my poor mind is
broken pieces of glass
on the Sunday sidewalk
put out another cigarette
be careful not to step in the vomit
think about that thing you wanna write—
My time on the deck
Sunday night drunks might like to read about
your idle mind out there
where is Walmart 2 am with Steve?
when life was still alive
where is wake up in the middle of the night and
go for a ride with Jamie?
there’s a vacancy here
I think somebody placed an emoji
where I used to smile
and I am insane
I think the smart phone outsmarted me
it’s the only way I talk to anyone
Sunday night blue
Sunday night where am I in your white haze lazy day?
The Lord blessed this day
where is that blessing?
what is that blessing?
the day of rest
that turns into the day of
restless cars
restless movies
restless potheads
better take another swig of water
better grip life
instead of leaving flowers
by its grave
life, where can I find you?
your laughter is hollow and fake
this Sunday
if I hear one more dog woof
for no reason
I think I’ll end up barking at the moon
actually, that might be a good idea
on my knees barking like a dog
at that luminescent locket I can’t open
hanging from a chain of stars
I should pant at the beauty of that woman with the sound mind
bet I could get her to go crazy in bed
but what does it matter?
my hair not combed
I’m not gonna commit adultery of the heart (attack)
I just want Sunday back
all dressed up to look like Saturday
I want Sunday milked like a cow
of all of her too slow white sky
I want Sunday to clink its beer bottles in a toast
not pile them up in a trashbag for that long
clanking walk to the dumpster on Monday morning
I want Sunday to give me another
dollar store tee-shirt that I can wear with bargain pride
I want Sunday night fried chicken to make me tired
I want Sunday to give me a baseball game
I tune in to in extra innings
with the backup catcher on the mound
I want Sunday to be perfect
I want too much
I look for too little
lemme snap your spandex bra
to resurrect Sunday night
Sunday night, you cold woman
who won’t make eye contact at the bar
Sunday, you are a bee without any honey
and all I wanna do is lick your comb