I love Sundays—
waking slow, stretching wide,
one last day to savor,
wrapped in the warmth of morning light.

But then it creeps in—
laundry piles, grocery lists,
gas tank half-empty,
a whisper of duty pulling me forward.
I hate Sundays.

Tasks complete, I stand outside,
admiring the work, the order,
knowing the week will not demand
more than I have already given.
I love Sundays.

Yet as the sun sinks low,
so does my heart—
the weight of the week ahead,
the early alarm, the Monday grind.
I hate Sundays.

But imagine if Monday was ours to keep,
a four-day week, the American dream.
More time to breathe, to rest, to live—
now that’s a Sunday I could always love.