4.16.14

Writing Prompt for 4/6/14: “A Day” — Pick a day of the week, a day in your life, any one day at all, and write. Go!

Sunday




The problem with a Saturday night

is that it always leads to

a Sunday morning.

The way wine leads to sex,

memories lead to tears,

wishing leads to despair.




A Saturday night scatters

all your shards around my feet,

glittery to my watery eyes,

shiny in the shadowy light,

ubiquitous and dark like a fog

that’s rolled in overnight.




And then Sunday dawns,

every clock-click threatening

to turn my feet toward you,

every blinding sight daring me

not to see you in it,

every gasping breath inviting in your memory.

You’re everywhere

and nowhere

at the same time.




A Sunday morning needs to come with a dustpan.

A brush and a pail should come standard

with every seventh sunrise…

So I could gather up your pieces,

and store you in a safe place

where I can admire your sparkle

without braving your jagged edge.




A Sunday morning should be sunny,

and carry a relief that I’ve made it

through another Saturday night.

Birds should welcome Sunday morning

with an Alleluia song,

and my eyes should open easily,

without crusted saline at the corners.




A Saturday night should be bursting

with you;

not splinters of you, no.

It should be brimming

with heaping helpings of you,

massive quantities of wit

and wisdom and tender spirit…

Delivered personally by you

so that Sunday morning could arrive with a sleepy blink

and the yawning comfort of

your arms around me.

/gsg