Sunday blues

Sundays are
rough
enough,
this one
worse than
most…
I have been
armed
with a snow
shovel and charged
with holding back
a hurricane…

As cherry
upon whipped misery,
the door bell rings,
she’s dropping
off medicine
for the cat,
decked in
Sunday finery,
down another
twenty pounds,
admits to
over indulging
in the fancy country
club Sunday brunch.

I stand in stained
shorts,
my shirt with
more holes than
viable cloth,
my hair standing
straight in every
direction,
my toenails
unclipped for
weeks,
my
stomach
churning away at
a McBreakfast
combination.

She gives me
the old up one side
down the other
eye summation
and knows everything.

She smiles,
“Nice hairdo.
Leave the
house much?”