Ann Arbor Review
INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
I CRY ON SUNDAYS
I can hear the clickity-clack of the many
perfectly-heeled miniature leather shoes,
the swishing of multi-tiered dresses, the carrying
of tiny pocketbooks. Young men swim in suits,
wear pressed ties from a sealed storage bin.
They are perfectly coiffed as they enter into
the house of reason, malfeasance or treason.
There, where the bell tolls, widows clutch their
pocketbooks, careful of ordained pickpockets.
I watch indifferently, with red puffy eyes
I remember my own personal losses:
losses without funerals. I cry on Sundays.
Post-congregation parties gather at their local eateries,
in their Sunday's best. There, they down syrup-laden
pancakes in hedonistic abandonment.
Bellies are filled to the brim in this ritual,
this careless mocking of starving masses.
I watch with a soul-sadness so deep
that it cannot be named. I could let out a howl,
but my Maker already understands. Tears of
flesh-eating rain pour like rivers when
I cry on Sundays.
Ann Arbor Review | Home | next | previous | Back to Top