Sunday evenings

have a ragged edge,  like torn paper.  The weekend page is mostly torn off and a long blank Monday is peeking through.  It’s a late spring this year for the northeast and this also sharpens the edge of Sunday night, nearly eleven o’clock now and the moon is covered, will have its day tomorrow,  lunedi.  As I’ve gotten older the dread of working burned away,  replaced by creaking exhaustion.  Pick this up,  put it down.  Driving a car on a crowded city street buckling with cracks and holes: also work.  Please  know I am not griping,
this is a plain statement of events.  On Sunday evenings the air is full of dashes and dollar signs; by Wednesday, Sunday  is  a forgotten ancestor. 


About emvlovely

Oh, I live in an RV. I write poems, essays and prose. Thanks for reading my blog, good health to you!
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