i never met a sunday that wasn't gloomy
a heavy gray depressing
the walls of my lungs, an iron band like
a yoke around my shoulders.
I never met a sunday that didn't bring
the sinking airless feeling
in the pit of my stomach
the way i feel when Mom opens the present
she put under the tree for herself.
I never met a sunday full of shine
and excited planning for the day to come
only sunday
of penitence, and waiting
for the refreshing monday to come