A Month of Sundays

It’s what’s meant to be a long time.
A month of Sundays does not exist,
unless you’re retired,
in which case it’s more likely you’d say,
A month of Saturdays,
being retired more like beginning a long weekend
than ending one that’s so all too short.

A month of Sundays:
I never know when we should initiate
the beginning of the week.
If on a Monday, then you may be 
someone who lives for the weekend,
squeezing every last minute
out of those precious two days fleeting,
away from the soul-killing world of work
you must endure for five days,
sometimes literally running,
those five days feeling in fact
like a month of Sundays.

Or a month of Sundays:
If for you the week starts on Sunday, then,
it follows that are very possibly
a person who enjoys your job,
chomps at the bit to tear into Monday,
like someone starved for a cupcake
entering a bakery that sells
day-old ones for pennies on the dollar.
You are always the first to arrive at the office,
you make the coffee,
you’ve brought the donuts (of course),
and you may even bring a sprightly bouquet,
sing out Happy Monday to the assembling choir
to brighten up the day for those who
despise round-one of the week,
Monday haters who even have coffee cups
emblazoned with words voicing their antipathy
to this enslaving interruption of the time they wished
had actually been a month of Sundays,
not seeing that as a very long time at all,
unless, of course, the golf game was off,
or a spouse forced church service attendance,
or the home team fell slaughtered victim to its arch rival,
or you ran out of beer and live in one of those quaint places
where alcohol is not sold on Sundays,
so you were forced to slog across county or even state lines
in order to purchase a blessedly numbing six-pack.
These, sadly, might be month-of-Sunday happenings that grate
against your desire to be living out a month of Sundays,
before you must press once more your nose to the spinning grindstone,
that gritty little wheel abrading your proboscis
to a bloody nub over the interminable course of your working life.

A month of Sundays:
The beginning of an eternity of killing time,
some period of waiting so excruciatingly infinite
that you cannot possibly see the end in sight,
as with mortgage or car payments,
or the moment when your adult child finds
a job offer out of town,
or true love accompanied by a new abode,
either happenstance signaling
a final vacating of your home at perhaps age 32
or more.

Or a month of Sundays –
That time of bliss eternal,
when all’s right with the world,
and you pray every precious moment
would last a lifetime,
the seconds stretching out to the edge of the universe,
as you hold your beloved in your arms,
experience your baby growing into adulthood,
enjoy the blessings of family and friends
while you live in perfect health and fine spirits.

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