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.