Sunday

That hooded day, that day I hated so When I was a child, and hate today as I grow Gray hair—Sunday, maudlin-rich with noon: Just after the preacher's pitch, and too soon After late breakfast with the bleeding comic Strips, front page politicians licking Their lips before carving up the world some more.

Then: Mahogany-red ripe ham (pineapple crusted), Oyster en casserole, asparagus dusted Lightly with strong cheese, effete dessert; Groggy nap; country drive; girl-orchestra concert From the big box-shaped radio.

Although

I smoke three packs of cigarettes, read trash, Sit through (bored by) a picture show, salve down My senses any way I can, don't shave, Don't dress particularly, behave Like a bored, befuddled child running to crime, Sunday's the same devout, dyspeptic time As before. Its colors reduce to brown. I've grown eccentric. Sometimes when a knock Cracks on the door, I ignore it, rock Right on. My phone was taken out two years Ago; silence is good for my ears.

Tantalus-like, I bite at the fuzzy peach; The branch swings up, dangles it out of my reach. And the water recedes when I bow my head. I dread False teeth. I dread a grizzled mixed-up head. I steep my hair in barber's potion, wince At the shaving-mirror's merciless offense. I wouldn't be nineteen in any sense.

Sunday has multiplied. Someone has fed It sexing pills. That brackish day has bred Six ugly children—and each one I dread.