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.
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 2:43 PM UTC
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.