Always Another Sunday Poem by Patti Masterman

There is always another Sunday,
From where do Sundays come from?
Do they sell them next to strike-anywhere matches,
Can you buy a three-pack and get one free
To make a perfect month, of Sundays?

Sunday afternoon might find you sitting at table
With some people you don't know too well,
Trying to make polite conversation
While slicing up some shoe-leathery beef roast,
That has always been the hallmark of the day.

Is it the first day of the week
Or effectively, the last?
How can the week start without any work?
Because it seems to make a better ending, instead.

Will we ever run out of Sundays?
Not unless we run out of football, baseball
Basketball and soccer first; it seems evident
That Sunday is merely a cog, attached to the sports wheel,
And is born and dies each week, with the big game.

You will not find most people discussing their sins
On Sunday afternoons:
You already know what they will be talking about.