Like jeans on a line, Sunday hangs heavy.
It wraps its gloomy shroud around us.
Its varied time-killers.
Through the dull morning.
Through deathly afternoon,
Then on to evening.
Come Sunday, they recoup for Monday’s race.
They sprawl deep in sofas.
Slump and slouch for hour after hour.
When evening comes,
They can smell Monday’s burning oil.
It appears at its small distance - a portent.
A reminder, for all Sunday’s victims,
That it’ll be on time.
On time as it always is.
One second after Sunday is spent.
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