Its Sunday.
His hands shake slightly, almost imperceptibly
As he grips the tongs
Fumbling over charred fish fingers

Neck bent over in performative stoop
He smiles, cracks a joke
That no one is willing to indulge
More than a faint pull of a smile

There is a cliché wrench at the heart
When he offers up a peace treaty of onion rings
And we maintain our front line
Face stony, eyes squinting in polite apology

An attempt at communication
Barely there
I urge with quiet eyes that while I may not be an ally,
I refuse to become the enemy.

I think perhaps we will spend the rest of our Weekly Sundays
In this warm weather
Waging battles of steadfastness and humility and onion rings in our heads.