Sunday's Crime
If Sunday were a song
She’d be a deep slow drumming
Arriving before dawn and
Calling us into the stretch of a languid morning.
Smoothing together forever and now,
The tender and the terrible of time’s ticking
Lulling us into peaceful sips of drunken
Tea and coffee on couches crumpled with
Sections of a newspaper and the week’s sigh settling in the crevices,
She ushers lovers into a day of the ephemeral.
Splendid and simple.
She sings of song, Sunday does, drawing out elastic rhythm,
Sung into being by the morning dove and the crow,
Their beaks plucking up and lifting the veil of indigo
From the sky, revealing the tangerine and blood of morning
For the Sunday paper readers, the bakers,
The praisers, the football match makers.
Sunday molds itself in gentle folds over
the copper filigrees of the week’s crowning moments,
Covering and softening moments with patina.
.
A time for nothing and everything:
For the gold shimmer of autumn trees
And the silver flickering of fly-fishing
The bronze of barefoot beach combing.
A leaf to uncurl,
A run through a park,
A reach for a neglected hand,
The warmth of a child’s breath.
Measures of mornings.
Oh, but for Sunday.
She leads you into a drawn, warm bath
And snuggles in close.
But cruel dusk cools the Earl Grey balanced on the ceramic rim, and
The evening pall pushes away the day already slipping from the window pane.
She chisels away the remnants of the light into sharp stone
And then with one quick quiver
Pulls and draws back
the insufferable arrows for Monday’s attack.