Sunday between the ponds

Time works in strange ways;
Nothing much to speak of when you, have it;
Yet lose it, and it’s the only thing, you want back.
The final day of the week used to be the same.
Everything closed down;
Nowhere to go quickly; unless it was church,
And you had something to confess…
It was easy to cross the street;
No need to look both ways back then;
Most cars were either being washed or fixed;
Sometimes both at the same time;
If you had parents like mine…
Fixing it, was a religion, for him;
Complaining about it;
A moral victory for her…
What a beautiful mess;
Being somewhere in the middle.
Time moved slowly on a Sunday;
Have a good one;
And it felt like a week’s vacation.
Have a bad one;
And you felt as if you were on death row,
Screaming for the judge,
To take it all away…


2 thoughts on “Sunday between the ponds

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