Sunday Morning, At A Funeral

Sunday Morning still

laid innocent in sheets,

barely half asleep.

Sunday Morning I was dreaming I was turning from a busy street

into a parking lot.

Sunday Morning broke

and dragged me out of bed,

slightly less asleep.

Sunday Morning I was warming all the cold parts of my head

in cups and coffee pots.

In the Winter I wonder

what it’s like to be anywhere else,

to be anywhere but here.

If I leave and don’t return I hope the factories get full

of people making furniture, with

the river running clear.

Sunday Morning fell

apart and back to sleep,

where I was running late,

where I looked out of place.

Sunday Morning pace of steady, nervous feet

headed for the church doors.

Sunday Morning dressed

in suits and shades of black.

Sunday Morning soft in Sunday best.

Sunday someone’s never coming back here

to this place anymore.

In the Winter I wonder

what it’s like to be anywhere else,

to be anywhere but here.

If I leave and don’t return I hope the factories get full

of people making furniture, with

the river running clear.

Sunday Morning stared

at rows of crowded pews.

Half or all asleep,

looking for a seat.

Sunday Morning waiting for a call from you

but didn’t hear my phone ring.

Sunday Morning had

to sit and watch you bawl.

Sunday Morning left the ringer off.

Sunday Morning missed it when you called and

couldn’t do a thing

but watch.

In the Winter I wonder what it’s like to be where you are.

In the Winter I wonder what it’d be like if you were still here.

Would the factories fill?

Would the river run clear?

Would the river run?

Sunday Morning dreamt

about a moment passed,

about a time I failed.

Sunday Morning I was staring at a clock, trying to push it back.

Sunday Morning wished to be a kid.

Sunday Morning shook

me all the way awake.

Stirred me from the dream.

Sunday Morning I was thinking of a phone call I should make

but never did.

I never did.