Sunday city morning shrugs at last night,
as though all was pensively predicted.
Sunday brushes themselves off to the lives of the street.
Doesn’t blush to the people it did meet.
Weeping blue morning, their people are not yet yawning.
Their trash filled sidewalks and Smokey gutter swamps cloth the broken hearted valleys they look upon each and every Saturday charade;
Quiet and motionless, like laboured soviets huddled for warmth.
Birds later gather, see what Sunday has to offer:
Will it show thrown up food or maybe it’s time for littered bottles and abandoned wars.
The bars have closed, the shops will open, hoping for an easy day of undue recovery.
Dug up drugs are found in those still wandering, wondering if they can forget their misery if only they talk aloud to Sunday.
Meanwhile the cold breeze ship the minds to a wishful port,
Exclaiming, please carry me to the next bed head, all the coloured shirts and suited people said.
If only they knew Sunday as well as they knew them.
No one would dare date Sunday city morning.
About the Creator
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More stories from Tarrison Tomlinson and writers in Poets and other communities.
Comments (1)
Poor old Sunday gets a bit of stick doesn't it! That was a pleasure to read - the literary equivalent of putting an old favourite jumper on! Kudos!