Sunday Melancholy

by Brendan Strong

Sunday comes dripping from the kitchen tap

Pounding a knife – balanced on a bowl – against

The base of the kitchen sink.

Coffee cannot come quick enough. Tip toe

Down the stairs. The girls are playing there.

Dolls arranged in a square, one of them in

Trouble: reminds me of something I read

About crows holding court, murder the guilty.

They learn so young in beams of light breaking

Up the early morning. Kettle goes on

Radio goes on, bread goes in, toaster goes on.

From the corner of my eye – a movement outside –

The winter sun glaring at the window.

They are talking about war. They are at war.

Caught in a forgettable flood of light.

Sunday will pass some day, but even then

There will be Monday left to mourn.

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