Those Damn Sundays. Poem by Zahava Fischer
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Those Damn Sundays.
Those damn Sundays
Raise your head.
Lift your chin.
There are questions to be asked.
We count our merchandise like peddlars:
Sisters, mothers, husbands.
Whom did we sleep with,
Whom did we think we were sleeping with.
On whom did we cast a stone.
Then a touch of senility
The blessed art of forgetting.
On Mondays nothing actually happened
Friday, February 24, 2006
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5/7/2024 9:00:38 AM # 1.0.0.1119
