“Sunday, and So Crowded”

…dedicated to those fortunate enough to have missed the Sunday pot luck; they’ll never miss you as they buffalo to the buffet table hoping that the food and drink are more arresting than the guests…

“Sunday, and So Crowded”

Sunday, and so crowded in the waiting room, no chair
Is empty, nor room to stand.
They come from miles to see this man; hands
Folded, some simile of expectation in the air.

 

The cows gathered hours before the milking time, no care
To be spoke beneath the vapid light made triplicate by ceiling fans,
Their needs expressed in vacant stares; no questions, no demands.
He’s in, he’s out, no matter, but of course he isn’t there.
It’s Sunday and this man is at home;
He’s left his station on the ceiling,
And standing just inside himself,
Cacophonies all but moan within the heart. Caves
Are empty within his mind and he hears a single tone
Within his breast, the redundant sign of his own breathing.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s