Sunday

The ominous dark awaits an uncertain light

after the horrified shrieks of Saturday night,

awaits an ambiguous trace of advancing day,

in blindness awaits an unclear crepuscular hope.

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Tumbling through the night the works of aeons,

the skyscrapers soaring high into the heavens,

the treasures bequeathed by our wisest parents,

the entailments meant to fasten our future prosperity.

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Heads shrouded against the collapsing concrete,

we missed the nascent traces of Sunday morning,

but now we sense a coming cold spring day.

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And waiting still for the fulness of the day,

we wonder, shaking with shudders and tremors of terror,

whether we're Sunday saved or Sunday damned.