rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Sunday

Sunday is the quietest morning. No rush of early commuters disturbs the tranquility. The few cars which pass are spaced minutes apart. The stars now fade in peace, and the first birds chirp as on some ancient day when no human had yet intruded on the forest. It seems almost like a memory. Maybe I was a bear.

Here's a poem I intended to post a couple of weeks ago when there actually were clouds and the heat was intense. Sluggo wouldn't let me. Better late than whatever.

SUNDAY

by Vern Rutsala


Up early while everyone sleeps,
I wander through the house,
pondering the eloquence
of vacant furniture, listening
to birdsong peeling
the cover off the day.

I think everyone I know
is sleeping now. Sidewalks
are cool, waiting for
roller skates and wagons.
Skate keys are covered
with dew; bicycles look
broken, abandoned on the lawns--
no balance left in them,
awkward as wounded
animals. I am the last
man and this is my
last day; I can't think
of anything to do. Somewhere
over my shoulder a jet
explores a crease
in the cloudy sky;
I sit on the porch
waiting for things to happen.

O fat god of Sunday
and chocolate bars, watcher
over picnics and visits to the zoo,
will anyone wake up today?



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