Year of writing 223. sundays

8/12/12


My eyes are heavy this morning -
I can feel the wrinkles at their corners
I sit in artificial cool, watching the sun
beat the shit out of the driveway outside.

I need to move, can feel it in my joints,
they crackle with anticipation for anything.
Instead I sit on a faux suede couch
hunched in the pose of an old man.

Sundays were not meant for me,
I need the push of a beginning, or
the anxiety of an approaching end.
These Sundays are too final, too gone.