On Sunday silence hangs heavy; like jeans on a line.
Sunday-silence wraps itself around,
With its gloomy shroud, the varied time-killers.
It does so through the dull morning.
Then, through the deathly afternoon,
And on into a better evening.
Come every Sunday they try to recoup themselves for Monday’s race.
They do so by sprawling deep in a sofa;
In which they slump and slouch for hour after hour.
When evening comes, they can already smell the fumes from tomorrow’s burning oil.
Monday appears at its small distance - a portent of tomorrow;
A reminder, for all Sunday’s victims, that it’ll be on time.
On time as it always is.
One second after Sunday’s spent.