Sunday

Sunday

February rain and its gray-violet light
Fall through the half-open blinds.
I’m wrapped up in blue and white quilts
Up to my chin, listening to the gentle gunfire
Pings of rain hitting the ground.
I’m awake.

In the mirrored closet
There’s a misty morning version of me.
She stretches and looks out at the room.
At the inside-out jeans and Uno cards on the floor,
At the receipts spilling out of the purse hanging on the door.
The radio reads 8:46 a.m., Sunday.

The rain falls harder, becomes a fusillade,
A barrage besieging the window.
The light withdraws.
I wait for it to come back
watching dark and deep shadows play,
Til I fall asleep.