Poor Sunday.
Hurried odes
to charabancs’ petrol fumes,
sycamore glades,
hand-me-down beauties.
Poor Sunday,
blue stripes, blue spots,
the swings have been taken down,
in the museum of consolations
the drooling sun
points at the merry dust.
Poor Sunday,
hour of splendor,
no secret sin
behind the arras,
it’s hoist all sails and nipples
erect and health here we come.