And Today I Forgot It Was Sunday

And today I forgot it was Sunday
With the Cumbrian hills in the background
Like Tipex that’s spilled on a diary
The executive putting his hat down
A momentary death of the ego
At modernity’s roadside gazebo

And today I forgot it was Sunday
But it’s not a release from a duty
Placed on me by life or myself it’s just
I’m just denied a faint sort of beauty
Surrounded by wrappers and ashtrays and folk
For whom the white of the week bleeds into its yolk

And today I forgot it was Sunday
Because the day wasn’t wearing it’s best
No crackling, or Homebase, or Dad’s scheduled nap
No Grandstand, Ski Sunday, or pre-Ashes test
Radio Essex on Mum’s tinny speakers
Replaced by the motorway’s everyday features

And today I forgot it was Sunday
I was expecting the croissants in bed
Style-sectioned hazy hungover mornings
Drowning in evenings weighed down with the lead
Of Hugh Scully’s antique and steadfastly tone
And the knowledge that no one will call on the phone

And today I forgot it was Sunday
Because the pattern of things can get lost
The taste of the dismal Ginster’s breakfast
Is masked only by the salt of the cost
And the nine ninety nine family meal deal’s
Use of ‘family’ in its pitch doesn’t feel real

Because I didn’t recognise Sunday
Dressed down in a standard salesman’s suit
Colder than toner at absolute Xerox
Flavouring water and shrink-wrapping fruit
Until the good of the day feels like it’s store-bought
As false as the rainbow on the petrol-soaked forecourt

© Luke Wright 2006