sundays

Sundays were never dark even when it rained, and it rained a lot. I would drip drip dry in the back of the house then take off my clothes all soaked to the bone, hang them on hooks (the wood floors start to groan) then run up the back stairs in my underwear in sandals, all ten toes goodness knows i was quick on them, too, and my brother in his room tryin' to learn the guitar, dad in his study with rifles on the wall, and where is mom? well she's coming with a big colored towel, and wraps me inside then takes one to my head as I try to evade, and there's nothing in this world for this life I could trade, growing up lucky in a country so fine... god blessed america is what i want to believe, returning to my knees like i did in my youth (for what's in the heart does not need living proof), i made my own hell by my thoughts and beliefs but i turned it around and hung it on hooks, ran up the stairs for some help  i would look --then fly into the arms of someone who cares, even if it's just god or a pet or a stranger you met, or yourself in the darkness running for light, in the darkest of darkest of darkest of night.