I've spent too much time on Twitter
And now I've been in a dither
I haven't been writing
Let alone anything exciting
So this really bad poem
Was the only thing flowin'
Please don't ask, "What's with her?"

he uses Monday to Saturday
to change the world
and uses a single Sunday
to change mine

It could have been a Sunday when the first glimpse of my unknown future would make itself known.

He was that mystery you never solve. The Nancy Drew case that kept you awake as a kid. The unknown if aliens are real or not. The uncertainty of who built the pyramids.

He was the first morning light and the darkest sunset you can imagine. His mind swayed from good to bad and bad to worse more often than not. He was the calm before the storm. The rain before the hurricane.

It could have been a Sunday when my life decided to take the turn down the wrong alley way on the middle of the night for him.

He was the softest linens on a freshly made bed. He was the rough hands of a man who worked hard. He was the dream I couldn't remember until you said the one word that brought it all crashing back. He was nostalgia and memories.

But he was different.
He let things change him and his past caught up with his future.
He let me change.
And my past caught up with him.

And maybe it was a Sunday... I can't be too sure when my future became uncertain.

On Sunday I find myself cursed,

By the drink I had last night,

My head it pains, like frozen rain,

My eyes adverse to to light.

Tyre tracks that lack definition
a premonition
a danger
for the lone desert ranger.

Oranges,
I peel them like grapes into indistinct shapes
and the sweet of them roll off my tongue.

In the tracks looking back where there's nothing but dust
just as I knew that there'd be
the thought and the smell of these fruits give me hell,
I wish that I'd stayed out at sea.

I switch on the TV to watch serial killers being murdered, it's realistic though untrue and I sit through several commercials for powders that wash whiter although not on black socks.

Rocks in my head
oranges in bed
and dust in my eyes
a plate of fries for my tea (advertised on TV)
and each day
it's the same thing for me.

As the hour draws steadily near,
The cold chilled spine from unknown fear,
As Sunday goes, Monday appear,
The weekend's dead, we shed a tear.

Sunday - the weekend's tombstone,
burying the worst of last week.
The silent ringing of church bells,
best suit coffined in my wardrobe.

I see proud parents pushing prams,
grandads toddling after toddlers,
but no young couples promenade,
as we did when teenagers.

Some sought their compensation
in sensational Sunday press.
It's surely generational.
We were schooled for Sunday rest.

he's black, white,
and read all over
by acquaintances in his
circumference of people.
but no one asks,
no one takes the time,
to inquire behind
the gray mix of his
black and white appearance.
perhaps he's a light blue,
or a pretty yellow
that mistakenly ran into
some gray along the way,
but no one knows
because they'd rather spend
their sunday morning judging
a black story on a white page
than exploring the vast depth
of an intricate person.

Grey Sunday afternoon.
Rain is fallen glistering gloom.
Inside it's warm and cozy.
Time for writing and relaxing.
Watch a movie and some texting.
Even when this day is grey.
Smile and have lovely Sunday.