Late afternoon on Easter Sunday: Downtown’s
as lonely as my living room now that
the celebrations have all ended–the processions
long over, the dishes washed from brunch,
the lilies already beginning their wilt–and I
am cycling around deserted streets under
granite-coloured skies threatening the storms
that come up suddenly in unstable spring;
I’m delaying the necessary return to the old
routine of Sunday-evening fears, drifting
through restless dreams into Monday’s panic.
Copyright 2017
T. Allen Culpepper