sunday afternoons

I remember Sunday afternoons as restful. My father would often fall asleep in the chair reading the paper. We watched golf if it was on and dinner was usually special and important. Our larger family had a brunch once a month and the love was palpable among the coffee cake and egg casseroles. Sundays were simple then and carried minimal dread.

Now I am usually only able to enjoy half of a Sunday, dreading returning to work and feeling I didn't get enough weekend. Today, I feel Sunday in a big way. I am squirming in its shadow; wanting it to sweep me all the way to Friday. I endure it until the golf and baseball games are over and then I hope to have a tasty morsel that will keep me from remembering it is Sunday night.

The warmth is deceiving.
Wind swirling
and the spitting rain jabs.

It is conflict
brewing
inside of me.

I am climbing
the tall wall
and straining to see.

I know there is
another side
and I am near.

I regret my insolence;
my near stupidity-
face in my hands.