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.