Sunday Poem by Kevin Patrick

Sunday is the cruelest day of the week
It stretches monotony into a cloud soaked day
seeping the inebriation of Saturdays
for the firing squad of Mondays routines
Its the waiting room of days
where joy wanders into a void
and all you have is the spitting boredom
for the appointment to the grave

Nothing happens on Sundays
theirs a staleness to the sun
and the mail never comes
and people pray at footballs church
as the day feels trapped in overtime
you can play with your friends
until you feel boredom's bends
pulling you down as your left in the lurch
feeling the daze of inertia's grime

life is one long cruel joke on sunday
times in a fishbowl, circling on repeat
fun is being murdered in a parking lot
where kids get high from the dry heat
cruising for action in a tumbleweed town
and nothing happens, not even sound


Sundays a wave, in a still-life pose
like a ghost without the holy host
and the sun never turns around
Oh sweet monday, burn it to the ground