Poetry Sunday

What could be more appropriate for Poetry Sunday than a poem about ... Sunday? This poem by Edward Hirsch, which reminds me of the old song by Johnny Cash, Sunday Morning Comin' Down, talks of old men and their memories ...

Early Sunday Morning

by Edward Hirsch

I used to mock my father and his chums
for getting up early on Sunday morning
and drinking coffee at a local spot,
but now I'm one of those chumps.

No one cares about my old humiliations,
but they go on dragging through my sleep
like a string of empty tin cans rattling
behind an abandoned car.

It's like this: just when you think
you have forgotten that red-haired girl
who left you stranded in a parking lot
forty years ago, you wake up

early enough to see her disappearing
around the corner of your dream
on someone else's motorcycle,
roaring onto the highway at sunrise.

And so now I'm sitting in a dimly lit
café full of early- morning risers,
where the windows are covered with soot
and the coffee is warm and bitter.


It's early Sunday morning here in NoVa, and not nearly as bleak as the Sunday pictured in our poem, because the sun is shining and later this morning, Agnes and I will meet up with our friends Ken and Nadja for brunch. Life is good when shared with friends.

Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo