Busy On A Sunday

Busy on a Sunday

by Kelp

At six in the morning
He’d wake me up
Pulling and poking
And invading my ear
With his moist breath and insistent voice:
“C’mon, let’s play. It’s time to play.”

And we’d sit together on the floor
Battling transformers or dinosaurs
Or fixing stuff with our tiny tools,
Battling back sleep and exhaustion.

Then with waffles and syrup
Settled down by the TV.
At twelve o’clock (every Sunday) the phone rings.
I bring the receiver to my ear.
“Howa you?” asks my mother,
With her New York intonation and pronunciation.
A love so habitual, like a ritual.
A love so formidable, almost unbearable.
Every Sunday at twelve o’clock.

Everything evaporates.
Grown up or passed away.
All the time-consuming relationships.
Until you are alone,
With lots of time on your hands.