17 July 2014

Sunday Morning, Sunday Afternoon

Saturday night dissolves into
Sunday morning, the music
and talk died away now, slipping
on blackened shoes, securing the goldbead
clasp of a handbag with a
snap, hem straightened, and, powdered and
lipsticked, off to Mass

later, picking up soft rolls and the
bulk of a Sunday paper, inky fingers pressed
Silly-Putty upon the funnies,
turning it to see the image
you have created, this
duplicate of a duplicate, another
and another

later still, listening for the
jingle-music of change in a pocket
foreshadowing thick curds of
ice cream in a crisp cone, the
paths cut into the grass of the
park strips of brown earth
worn bare, naked as
open wounds

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