Sunday

A contemporary poem from E.B. Johnson.

another sunday night listless in
reality. bliss-less in unforgiving 
tragedy that doesn’t quite become
you.

you made the most out of sunday’s. 
when you’d throw the windows open 
and sing doo-wop with your hair pinned 
back.

foggy smells and pine. another lifetime 
marginalized by your propensity to care.
time is an illusionary concept and i
slip

in and out of it l…