Sunday had a way of
feeling enormous, with
its minutes crawling by,
pecking at her brain.
At the first crack of
light she would peek
through broken blinds,
watch alley rats nibble
leftover pizza crusts
as empty beer cans
clinked across asphalt,
remnants of a night
she would never know.
While others yawned
and stretched, sizzled
bacon or mixed Bloodies,
she would hold her breath
under musty sheets, clench
her teeth and count to 10.
She’d remember a time
when she would put on
the good shoes and sit
silently on the creaky pew.
Or when she would help
bake the biscuits, laugh
and go find the eggs. But
that was before Sundays
became unmanageable, a
day trapped in her head,
pecking at her brain.
