77 Words About Nothing (Sundays)

March 11, 2012 — Leave a comment

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 –


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 –


The floors stayed clean.

Mirrors weren’t smudged.

The words weren’t spoken.


Sundays weren’t massive.

They weren’t even.


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