Ten on Sunday evening, a lonely time,
sitting on the porch steps as the night
begins to cool, though there’s no wind,
unusual for Oklahoma, nearly perfect calm.
Cat sacked out on the walkway rolls
over onto her back in total relaxation,
stretches methodically, one leg at a time.
Stars fleck the sky, visible tonight despite
the illumination of houses, city streets.
It has been a good day, but solitary;
the solitude agreeable at first, but
now grown tiresome at day’s end,
when I most crave the comfort of touch.
There comes a sadness that would be
beautiful in literary narration, but
whose beauty’s less evident from
inside the experience itself. It’s
that reflective time between the
weekend and the week when old
mistakes return like ghosts and
new anxieties take hold like demons.
T. Allen Culpepper