Sunday
Sundays were never mine,
in design or desire.
They are half-warm,
half-true. And I never
learnt to play.
They are for clasped cold hands.
For listening to children in
gardens not yet ours.
And for the birds who sing,
but never meet.
They are for family tables
where I never belonged.
For walks with rain in
my shoes. And beds made
fresh, but not for me.
Sundays are made for settling.
Not,
for the Mad Woman. No—
that would be too easy.
