Just a Sunday
It’s a Sunday, it’s a Sunday, it’s a Sunday. Just a regular Sunday with the dread of work on Monday. A Sunday where I’ll clean the bathroom, like I do every Sunday. The end of the weekend where I finish up my chores that I pushed aside on Saturday. It’s the day where I sit on the carpeted floor, even though the two cushion couch is perfectly empty, and I’ll watch the sunspot crawl across the ground as time passes. It’s my routine Sunday walk and those I pass will have a hand holding their hand. It’s a Sunday where I sit at the end of the kitchen table, a plate of dinner and nothing else. The calendar says it’s a Sunday, like all the other 51 Sundays that have passed. But it’s not just a Sunday. I don’t have a routine for this Sunday. I don’t know if I ever will.