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“Sunday Afternoon”
He wonders,
What she’s doing,
With her day.
The sun is out,
The day is bright,
All the things,
She would love,
To have in a Sunday,
Are all rolled out,
Before her,
Today.
He hasn’t seen her,
In over 2 ½ weeks,
If you don’t count,
The recurring images,
Of her,
That still hadn’t,
Tapered off,
In his mind.
He’d like to think,
She thought about him,
Once or twice,
In that same period,
Of time,
But he couldn’t think of,
Any good reasons why,
She would have.
He thought it would,
Have become easier,
Her pull on him,
Would have been,
Negated,
By distance and time,
But he was sorely,
Mistaken.
He finds himself,
Saying her name,
Way more than needed,
At work,
Bringing her up,
In conversion,
Just so he could,
Hear himself say,
Say her name,
Or have a reason,
To hear others,
Talk about her.
It made him feel good,
When he did,
Though,
So he quit trying to,
Fight the urge,
To suppress it,
And just went,
Along with it.
He got up,
And made a drink,
Though,
You could argue,
Grabbing a beer,
And pouring a shot,
Wasn’t really making,
Much of anything.
He focused his vision,
On a tall pine tree,
It had,
What he thought,
Was a red tail hawk,
Perched on the very top,
Of its highest,
Out stretched branch.
He reached over,
With his left hand,
Keeping his eyes,
On the red tail hawk,
As he put his thumb,
And index finger,
On opposite sides,
Of the shot glass,
As he picked it up,
And made quick work,
Of the 3oz shot,
He had blindly guided,
To his mouth.
He then reached over,
With his right hand,
And took a sip,
Of beer,
More of a chase,
After the shot,
Really,
Then a drink.
He watched,
The red tail hawk,
For a few minutes more,
Before it lifted off,
From the branch,
Probably,
In search of prey.
He continues to stare,
At the now,
Bare branch,
Of the pine tree,
As he still wonders,
What did she do?
With her day…
Tom Allen…05-21-2017…Sunday…
He wonders,
What she’s doing,
With her day.
The sun is out,
The day is bright,
All the things,
She would love,
To have in a Sunday,
Are all rolled out,
Before her,
Today.
He hasn’t seen her,
In over 2 ½ weeks,
If you don’t count,
The recurring images,
Of her,
That still hadn’t,
Tapered off,
In his mind.
He’d like to think,
She thought about him,
Once or twice,
In that same period,
Of time,
But he couldn’t think of,
Any good reasons why,
She would have.
He thought it would,
Have become easier,
Her pull on him,
Would have been,
Negated,
By distance and time,
But he was sorely,
Mistaken.
He finds himself,
Saying her name,
Way more than needed,
At work,
Bringing her up,
In conversion,
Just so he could,
Hear himself say,
Say her name,
Or have a reason,
To hear others,
Talk about her.
It made him feel good,
When he did,
Though,
So he quit trying to,
Fight the urge,
To suppress it,
And just went,
Along with it.
He got up,
And made a drink,
Though,
You could argue,
Grabbing a beer,
And pouring a shot,
Wasn’t really making,
Much of anything.
He focused his vision,
On a tall pine tree,
It had,
What he thought,
Was a red tail hawk,
Perched on the very top,
Of its highest,
Out stretched branch.
He reached over,
With his left hand,
Keeping his eyes,
On the red tail hawk,
As he put his thumb,
And index finger,
On opposite sides,
Of the shot glass,
As he picked it up,
And made quick work,
Of the 3oz shot,
He had blindly guided,
To his mouth.
He then reached over,
With his right hand,
And took a sip,
Of beer,
More of a chase,
After the shot,
Really,
Then a drink.
He watched,
The red tail hawk,
For a few minutes more,
Before it lifted off,
From the branch,
Probably,
In search of prey.
He continues to stare,
At the now,
Bare branch,
Of the pine tree,
As he still wonders,
What did she do?
With her day…
Tom Allen…05-21-2017…Sunday…