Sunday is a laugh. It is too late to do anything,
you’ll have to wait it out in the early dark
and pray Monday, its unpredictable twin,
stays away, that the week won’t start,
time will permit you to walk the autumn path
through leaves in crisp air, undemanded,
until you make a decision at last;
you will be clearing out before Christmas,
heading rural, living in unnamed days;
every one a self-employed, a writer’s bliss.
[Sunday]