Sunday morning drunks

9:30 a.m.

The bag-wrapped bottle

is half emptied

into his eyes

glassy in the

Sunday morning shade

 

another night has bled

into another day

without notice

 

train been singing

the whole time

 

in the past,

that hand held more

than bottles

but now,

itís the only shape

his hand will take

 

another one calls from his porch

sharing morning beers

with his neighbor

You must be new here,

I havenít seen you before.

but I see him

same time every Sunday

and I havenít been new here

for a year

 

bright blue morning glories

the size of fists

stretch out for the church bells

of Sunday

 

Woodpecker knows

no one is listening.

 

They gather

at the mouth of the alley

that secret undercity flow

migrating at† the urge of the cops

those blue-creased Sunday brooms

 

They belong to me

strangers to each otherís souls

becoming mine when

I took the shopping carts

and empty bottles

with the canopy trees

and Victorian charms

My wanderlust joins

the leftover parties

roving by

cheap wine testaments

spill in my window

preaching no glory

no salvation

dispossessed of all gospel

but the possession of spirits

vacuum-eyed and shaking

9:30

on Sunday.

 

 

 

copyright Kimberly White 2005

published in Drumvoices

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