Sunday

You are the start of the week

Or the end of it, and according

To The Beatles you creep in

Like a nun. You're the second

Full day the kids have been

Away with their father, the second

Full day of an empty house.

Sunday, I've missed you.

I've been

Sitting in the backyard with a glass

Of Pinot waiting for your arrival.

Did you know the first Sweet 100s

Are turning red in the garden,

But the lettuce has grown

Too bitter to eat. I am looking

Up at the bluest sky, I have ever seen,

Cerulean blue, a heaven sky

No one would believe I was under.

You are my witness. No day

Is promised. You are absolution.

You are my unwritten to-do list,

My dishes in the sink, my brownie

Breakfast