77 Words About Nothing (Sundays)

Sunday nights weren’t massive.

They weren’t even nights.

They were Sunday mornings that remained.

Even as the sun would fade,

The slept in clothes remained –

the coffee breath – constantly refreshed –

remained.

And the empty feeling of facing the day’s remainder in a steamy one-room

box where the TV antennae was the only non-geometric shape to meet your eye –

remained.

The floors stayed clean.

Mirrors weren’t smudged.

The words weren’t spoken.

and.

Sundays weren’t massive.

They weren’t even.