SUNDAY, SUNDAY

SUNDAY, SUNDAY


I think of him many times
Through-out the long, long week
And though I never see him
And we seldom even speak----
It doesn't happen often
That I think of him on Monday
But on the Holy Sabbath
I remember him; it's Sunday.

And on a lazy Sunday morning
As I lie alone in bed
Wondering if he's with her
And on his chest, her head----
Is it a waterbed or featherbed
Satin or flannel sheets
Does she awake him with a kiss
One upon each cheek?

Is it pancakes and bacon
With tea and marmalaid
Or cinnamon french toast
With some scrambled eggs----
Does he fasten her back zipper
On her new church dress
I wonder if they're Catholics
Who repent and then confess?

Does he ask the Priest's forgiveness
For pretending she was me
Last night in the darkened room
Where she could not see----
His eyes may be open
But not her face he saw
As he took her once again
With passion, strong and raw.

"A saint on Sunday morning
A devil on Saturday night"
That's what he always called me
When he turned out the light...
'Cuz I'd turn it right back on
I loved to see his body
Touching, loving, laughing
God, so sweet and naughty.

Sundays now are long and cold
As I dress for Church alone
And eat my toast and give my cat
A small treat made of bone----
God is good and I am pleased
But He could be even better
I curse Sundays like I cursed him
In my final, goodbye letter.

Sunday, Sunday.......