Sunday
Sometime after the storm
optimistic freshness set in.
Skies that could be on the Simpsons
wipe the weather slate clean.
We can go out now.
We don’t want to but
the thought that we could
make things seem better.
Light takes on healing qualities and
shadows seem friendly,
losing their sinister intent.
It’s another Sunday evening
with dinner to come and the
final juice of freedom to be squeezed
from the weekend.
Another cycle,
the same old, same old
and contentment pervades
like the smell of the Sunday roast.
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