Sunday sewn on Saturdays seams and dreaming freedoms stitched in black and white,
night light salad greens and where sleep used to lay grows a new day.
Tea,at most a slice of toast,the morning views,who's in and out and what's news is this?
kiss the crumbs of toast goodbye,licking lips,another dry day in the dock,pock marks on the hoarding,lording advertisers selling premium this and other things and the Baptist church brings pamphlets to a table set before the door,selling the hereinafter before we've been before.
It's City Sunday when the marketmen come sell their wares down in the lanes and trains are full of gawkers gawking at the hawkers and the good Samaritans which are few and far between are seen along the dusty tracks collecting tax from income earned,where nothing's taught we never learned the basics of how to live a life of ease.
I please myself as to when and where and who I share my hard times with,just give an inch and some take the whole **** mile
but it's Sunday for a while and so we let the dogs at bay go on our way as if it's Sunday everyday and nothing's new,
Sunday sews a string of beads around the neck of late last night and pulls it tight and we might decide that Sundays are alright or not.
Spot on spit upon my hand and shake it well,agreed that Sundays ****** Grand a day of rest and love to test and takes the best of all we've got.
I like this day an awful lot and there's not a lot I like no more and tomorrow's Monday,what a blinking bore.