Sunday

it doesn’t feel like Sunday–

the sun is up

there is coffee

to be brewed

but it

doesn’t feel

like Sunday

somewhere

a choir is singing

and voluminous periodicals

are waiting

at doorsteps

and the workday

routine

has ceased

and in other places

far from here

the lives of joy

or poverty or

war

continue.

but here

it does not feel

like Sunday

how is it

that the earthly

constructs

of time

can be

so conveniently

folded

as if

to disappear?

and here we sit

the followers

of days

that we cannot

even remember–

a month of Sundays,

‘a thousand months’–

the collective

human life span

consolidated

on demand.

but

it

does not

feel

like

Sunday…
Linda Tauhid

7/26/15

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