sunday

morning comes after noon.
breakfast of coffee,
lunch and dinner at seven.
it's odd-
when you have this
when nothing needs to be done
when the clothes are washed and hanging-
papers done and filed
bed still unmade-
how empty are your days.
but driving-
with the music,
with the singing,
and the wind-
this could be forever,
should be forever,
would be forever if it weren't for the bills-
the banker-
the bullshit.
so you sit waiting till spring
when it may be different.
wait for the long-planned and spontaneous move.
wait for the certain uncertainty that here-
in August
can still twist your stomach in knots.