Planet Sunday (sort of Petrarchan)

November 25, 2012

Oh happy day of laundry and scrubbing,
dusting the grit of the week to the floor,
as the TV murmurs through the walls,
Sunday lingers in the hall, and is all of a leaning.

Oh mellow hour of kitchen cutlery,
Sunday light, switches on the landing
between midday, dusk, then darkening evening,
we organise the chairs, like hotel stationary.

And the wind is rustling in the tall bamboo.
Boxes of your life are sat in the lounge.
I take a call as the night ticks down.
There’s no time now to watch cartoons.

Sunflowers grow longer than a month of Sundays.
The week gathers, with all of our beloveds
and all our misdemeanours.


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