It’s lukewarm on this lazy Sunday,
And I don’t know where I put my glasses.
I don’t even want to tear myself
From the syzygy that makes me, my blanket
And my bed, to find them. Maybe I’ll crawl out
Of my coziness and try to seize the day.
There are fourteen-forty minutes in a day,
And I can waste them all on this lazy Sunday.
I could get breakfast, but I’d have to make it out
The door — and I can’t find my glasses.
I suppose I’ll just stay under the blanket,
Spending those minutes on myself.
I could possibly make breakfast for myself.
I do so just about every other day.
Bacon does sound good, but my blanket
Weighs a hundred pounds. And after all, Sunday
is my day off. Where are my glasses?
Right on the windowsill where I left them. Out-
Side, I see people who got out
Of bed already. People as lazy as myself —
Probably… Oh, fine! I put on my glasses
And trek to entropy. At least it’s warm today.
And for a while it’s a very nice Sunday,
But it isn’t as warm as my blanket,
And doesn’t feel as heavy. As pewter blankets
Stretch across the horizon, I look out
Over the cut and appreciate what Sunday
Has to offer. That’s what I tell myself,
But I know that today is just another day;
Seeing the world with rose tinted glasses
Yet again. I stop to wipe off my glasses
That are smudged with a blanket
Of dust from the Oakland air. The day
Is only part way done and I am looking for an out.
I continue the mission to make myself
Breakfast on a lukewarm, lazy Sunday:
A not so sunny day, in my glasses,
Making Sunday breakfast in a blanket
Of optimism. Out by myself.