Sunday is a killer. I want a festive time, a darling illness
Hands playing staccato violin,
While the theme from psycho fills the room.
Instead, the day's as vacant as an infant's dumb stare.
In Mexico, the toreadors are having their day,
Torturing bulls that would rather be sleeping.
But here, the only things being tortured are the lawns,
Wet down by their owners
'til soggy and numb. yesterday, while shopping,
I saw three men on crutches
Buying galoshes for the women they loved.
But today the only thing I hear are the ethnics outside.
They're walking to church to bless baskets of eggs,
Immobile things that will smell bad with time in this heat,
This humidity,
That has closed down even the stripper joints.
It's sad to consider how much sweat is wasted today,
Produced by our own simple breathing.
Even sadder is when the night turns so arid.
Nothing can shimmy. nothing can dance