A sip of morning’s coffee
and consciousness rises from some unknown depths.
There is a dull ache traversing the entire landscape
of my skin, or my flesh in the biblical sense.
The coffee is strong; rich and black.
The smell of it takes me to a thousand different places
where I sat, drinking morning’s dew from eyes
and watched the shuffling of another day
that would soon find itself at a dead sprint.
Ah, but that was the past.
There seems so much of that now,
stretching out along the road that has brought me here.
So many adventures, heartaches and faded glory.
And it is left to my moth eaten memory to house
all of those amber encased moments that seemed would never end,
though did.
So, now I sit with Sunday Morning and she lights a cigarette.
Of course, she will tell me it is a terrible habit
as she takes a puff and hands it to me.
I just stare at her with a half-hearted smile
and mumble some poor excuse of carrying with
on last habit for a little while longer.
Sunday; she knows me better than any other,
has been there when there was no other.
She has seen me in prison orange, sleeping off the reverie
of Saturday Night.
She has patiently listened as I argued with my other self,
discussing the reasons for lingering on a while longer.
I have always decided to stay, despite what the week may bring
I know that Sunday will be waiting at the end.
She has seen me clinically insane, not knowing where or who I was
and sat by me, rocking me gently until I came back into myself.
She loves, despite the heartache I have thrown at her first light’s feet,
because she has seen me shine, known me barefoot in the woods
with powerful words on my tongue, softly emitting my own light.
She knows I am more than one color, shape, emotion.
For as much as she is unchanging, I am change.
She has seen me in her morning’s service, seated and singing.
Searching for that spark that smoldered along the way.
She does not judge, neither approves nor disapproves
but watches and waits as the week draws to an end.
Oh Sunday, if you could whisper to me all that you have witnessed
would our hearts break or burst with light?
It does not matter, I know she remains silent
and is a better friend for it,
so I will come back here again and again
and always find my Sunday waiting.
