How to Explain a Sunday Afternoon

I've never been able to explain the pall

of childhood's Sunday afternoons.

Breakfast first, with the the runny omelets

my father made only on that day,

then Sunday school -- and afterwards,

as it was the other religion's Sabbath,

everything worth doing shut down.

Back then, there was TV only, or radio,

and nothing that catered to a child.

Thus, you were left with family and the dog

every single one as bereft as you.

Sunday afternoon was an eclipse

of some enormous bird's wingspan

and time tiptoed baby-steps:

a minute, one hour; one hour, three.

Your father reclined in his easy chair

reading things arcane, or infused

the house with classical music's

melancholic refrains.

Alas, it is difficult to paint the wan face

of Sunday afternoons, when the world paused, .

yawned, and took an interminable breath.

By 7 pm, the burden finally abated a bit

when, blessedly, TV brought you Lassie,

with Timmy or some other luckless sap

needing rescue for the ten-thousandth time --

the whole family snorting popcorn like manna

breathless for resurrection, for the blanket

of night's euthanasiac end to Hell,

for morning's mayhem to blot Sunday's pitch

down the dark parched well.

Copyright Julianza Shavin 02/08