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Sunday
November 14, 2022
It is Sunday,
The world isn't real
It is a Sunday afternoon
The football game is on tv
and if I can tell you a secret
time feels thin today
I think I could rip my fingers through it
and the leaves in the tree are dead
but they are still moving,
It is Sunday,
I could rip my fingers through my life
crawl through and
come out somewhere
where I don't know that crowd noise is
pre-recorded
or about laugh tracks
somewhere where I still think that
the radio plays songs live from a concert
like a telephone
It is Sunday,
nothing matters but everything is good
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