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