…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.