Sunday Mourning

On Sunday mornings

we wake up

and exchange greetings

over a cup of coffee

the New York Times spread

between the scrambled eggs

and Fruit Loops

spoon fulls of sugar and

knowing smiles that this

this moment is fleeting

as much as we want to

linger in the intimacy

of Sunday mornings

Then off again in pursuit

you go

as do we

in opposite directions

packing our sand toys

and smallness

into the family hearse

racing 75 miles an hour

away from the dreary landscapes

and splintered houses

of outworn creeds and promises

— chasing down a glimpse

of anything

that has roots in

something

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