Sunday Morning



I wake up then make our bed before doing anything else because I’m superstitious.
I go into the kitchen for my morning glass of ice water.
The first sip, more of a gulp, cools my esophagus in slow motion.
On the second sip this sensation doesn’t repeat itself.
What do I smell like on the inside?

I go into the living room then turn on the radio.
I stand there kind of thinking about what’s outside kind of not.
It’s sunny, some clouds, no breeze sways the tops of the live oaks.
My body feels less starchy, my feet shorter, than before sleep.
I must smell pretty bad on the inside.
A kid in a bathing suit dives into the swimming pool, flying head first directly over the “no diving” sign.
Breaking the law, breaking the law.
The day’s first smile cracks open my face.
My shoulders pop when I rotate my arms.
Is there more hair on my chest than yesterday?

As it turns out, the song on the radio doesn’t serve my purpose.
I dial into another station to better ease into my Sunday.
Yeah, that’s more like it.
My head starts moving to a chill beat.
Today I need to do all the things I didn’t do yesterday.
I smell my armpit, biological decay.
The people who live under me are cleaning their airspace.
Their vacuum roars as it inhales sloughed epidermal cells.
In the wake up the vacuum, next week’s detritus.
Doomed to lose the battle no matter how valiantly we fight.
I load the dishes from last night’s dinner into the dishwasher.
I wash the bigger items by hand, like pots and pans, because I operate under the illusion of efficiency.
The dog shakes, an explosion of fur sheds across the floor.
On the dining room table the cat nestles farther into my bag, covering it with her fur.
Why, Sisyphus, why?

August 31, 2014 1:46 pm

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