Trying to Write Poetry On a Sunday

If you’re anything like me
you might consider the weekends
something of a sacred time.
For me, I can have my coffee

and write, without worrying
about the upcoming workday.
Yet even on the weekends
the fridge becomes empty

and I find myself running
to the grocery store, over-caffeinated
with stubble on my face
and under a baseball cap,

hair sticking out at odd
angles. I grab the essentials
and rush out, feeling as if I have
alarmed the cashier

Perhaps I seem mad, my thoughts
swirling in search of some
invisible theorem. But it is no time
for pleasantries – all must be undone
in pursuit of the purest poetry

Returning home, I kiss my wife
and son. I scratch my head
at the keyboard, beside me
a large bunch of bananas

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