Sundays

The grey light streams in
And jumps on your shut eyes
Pestering you to awaken
Even though you insist upon
Being unconscious for just
“another five minutes”
but the universe doesn’t care
it wants to
needs to
nudge you into the world
of the waking
and if you don’t agree
it will push
no
hurl
you into the conscious state
where the suffocating worries
of the mundane
await.

Sunday is the reality check of the week
The color grey,
The taste of ennui.
Wreaking of solitude,
possibilities lost.

It’s the leftover stew in the back of the fridge,
The topsy-turvy of a stomach that can bear no more stress.
Bitter and grainy
Like chewing on sand
The gagging sensation
Lingering
in the back of your throat.