lingering over a cappuccino
and piles of newspaper.
windows open
flowing breeze and quiet conversation
boys still asleep.
sunday morning.
time stands still
until ... one, two, three they're up
scrambling.
breakfast, showers,
where are my dress shoes?
time to go. now.
sunday morning.
in the pew
a little breathless, but peaceful.
no place i'd rather be
on Sunday morning.
*from the files of very bad poetry by bia
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| verona, italy june 2010 |
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