Sunday Morning Poem by Jan Oskar Hansen

Sunday Morning



Sunday
The sun vainly warm white
plastic tables.
Sunday closed café.
I wrote my name in a dusty surface.

A nearly empty bus drives by,
inside two old ladies
vacantly looked into a memory.
A child sits on the curb,
plays with her dolls
while the subdued moped
leans against a flaking wall.
The day of rest in Iceland.

Monday, August 21, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: story
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