Sunday Mornings

T'was easy, as the dawn that cries, with no alarm
a cock that crowed his brazen song
the clock that ticks in total calm
and so you lie, prostrate, prolonged

 Reap the calm after the storm, alone
your tousled hair was left uncombed
and let the mind slouch in a chair
with thoughts like piles of dirty underwear

Warm the leftover Pizza, not quite stale
refill the empty coffee jar
in retrospect. discard the junk unopened mail
was he a bummer or a star

For a day of rest as the bible quotes
 for night was milked on passion's wheel
the heat so stoked, in echoed notes
your heart laid bare and all revealed

Toils rusty chain has flopped
the day when you don't chase your tail
clouds will part, the sun to glint on your outcrop
dress down, power suits left on the rail
 
Sweet tidings rest upon each yawn
massage of a long hot bath, feel the tension ease
to slouch in your pajama uniform
time to share and shoot the breeze

Buzzed Facebook msg, on your phone
rest easy, for he will calm all your concerns
"sweet kisses and are you alone"
Sunday morning; the light returns

Sunday mornings are the hardest.
  
Like today. I was doing fine. I got my own coffee going-albeit lacking the French touch you would bring.  
Hit play on that Acoustic Sunday Mornings mix.    
Lit a fire in the chimney—same one we always meant to get swept  
when we were we.  
   
I stepped out under the crisp winter air to scoop up the New York Times—  
I still think of you    every    single     time.  
One hundred Sundays and counting  
of a little bend and break.  
   
As I always did (remember?), I first gravitate towards the magazine, seeking inspiration from this week’s poet.    
First page opened reveals a happy couple.    
Dressed like us.  Traveling like us.  
   
‘Unexpected Italy’ it heralds, along with a less unexpected longing in my womb.  
The same one you used to inhabit.  
The very space you failed to hold sacred.  
   
On morns like this, I mourn the (al)most.  
   
R.