Sunday

It's too late for breakfast
Too early for lunch
And there's nothing you want to eat, anyway.

The sun is shining resignedly through the blinds.
You've been in bed all morning, but you're still tired,
And the bed is sucking like a lugubrious swamp.

You've got nothing to do
And no one to do it with, anyway.

Maybe you'll just walk around the house in your underwear
Until darkness comes.