Sunday

It starts simply enough, a symphony of birds who

Clearly value their constitutions and sleep in,

A leisurely double espresso in bare feet and shorts,

John Coltrane simmering in the kitchen and

Me slouched in a straight back chair at a red and

White striped table centered by a chorus of

Unlit candles and a conically folded white napkin.

Rain patters on the veranda roof in the next room,

Streaming in such a way to pass the dishwater sky

In front of a series of circus mirrors, the stares of

A cigar-chewing fat man, a rail of a girl with a half

Eaten cotton candy and someone with the misfortune

To resemble a pavlova sculpted by a blind man

Read a magazine over my shoulder with interest.

I wonder if the perks of living everyone’s childhood

Pleasure everyday outweighs never having a day of rest and

Being obliged to stand at attention for hours at a time.

I answer my own question silently and lay my

Magazine down as the rain grows still, allowing the sun

 To illuminate a sink full of dirty day-old dishes.