Sunday
The church bells ring like spoons
stirring a pot too large for one life.
Smoke curls from a chimney,
a gray hand waving farewell.
Pavement shines with yesterday’s rain.
In the bakery window,
cakes sit under glass domes,
pale survivors of some small disaster.
I walk past the park, empty except
for the swing that moves itself.
Each creak, a syllable
the wind forgot to utter.
Somewhere, a dog howls at a siren
and for a moment they harmonize,
a duet for the lost and the nearly found.
By dusk, the air smells of ash and roses.
Day folds itself and slides beneath the door
.
Monday
Streetlights hum their secret alphabet.
A man in a milk-colored hat
counts pigeons like debts owed to heaven.
Someone left her shoes by the bus stop,
neat as intentions.
Rain starts, and the shoes dream of feet.
I buy lettuce and paperclips.
The cashier says nothing, her eyes
two slow clocks.
Behind us, the freezer murmurs
a hymn for vanished cows.
Outside, all traffic lights turn green at once,
miracle for the impatient.
If you listen, even the clouds
have a way of whispering your name,
just before the sound slips slowly into fog.
Yellow Tuesday
Sun was an egg cracked over the street,
yolk running down windshields and bus stops.
A man in a torn suit hummed to his shoe.
Pigeons watched from phone wires.
Inside the bakery, the loaves sweated
in their glass case.
A woman counted nickels
as if they were rosary beads.
Somewhere, a radio coughed out a song
about leftovers and love.
The light thickened
until even shadows tasted of mustard and corn.
I stood there holding a lemon, a small sun
trying to remember what it was born to be.
Wednesday
Sky woke bleeding behind the steeple,
as if someone had whispered bad news.
Every window wore its wound,
curtains trembling, glass remembering faces.
A boy dragged a broken bicycle
past the butcher shop,
handlebars wrapped in twine
and good intentions.
The butcher hummed to the bones,
each tune a small apology.
Traffic lights blinked uncertainly
between mercy and command.
A stray dog carried a red glove in its mouth.
I met my shadow under the awning.
It asked for spare change or forgiveness.
By evening, the color had settled in our throats,
and the world kept swallowing,
slowly, as if every word were too sharp to say
.
Blue Thursday
Morning arrived folded in half,
a soft envelope of drizzle and light.
Someone had written the word maybe
on the mailbox in blue chalk,
and no one dared wipe it away.
Down at the pier, the boats
dreamed of clouds again, rocking gently
like old men humming in their sleep.
A gull floated past,
dragging the horizon behind.
In the café, a woman stirred her tea
until it looked like a small ocean
in a gathering storm.
No one spoke. Even the spoons
seemed to hesitate before clinking.
All day the sky unbuttoned itself,
showing a pale undershirt of memory.
We watched, pretending not to care,
while color drained from everything
into a single blue puddle at our feet.
Friday
The town woke without opinion.
Smoke leaned against the houses,
and the sidewalks yawned like old dogs.
On the corner, a newspaper fluttered,
headlines worn to whispers.
The coffee tasted of patience,
of promises no one meant to keep.
A man in a wool hat counted clouds
as if they were IOUs.
Two sparrows argued over a crumb.
By noon, the air had settled into stillness,
a drawer filled with folded thoughts.
The sun appeared, pale and apologetic,
a mourner too late for the funeral.
I walked home carrying nothing
but the sound of my boots on wet pavement,
each step a small gray prayer
to the week that refused another prophecy.
Brown Saturday
A cat sprawls on the radiator,
dreaming of small crimes.
Morning smells of overripe bananas
and newspapers too sad to read.
A man drags his broom across the sidewalk;
the street answers with dust.
In the thrift store window,
a headless mannequin wears
a wedding dress
the color of weak tea.
Somewhere, a preacher on the radio
offers joy on layaway,
but the sky looks undecided,
as if it misplaced the sun.
By evening, the town settles
into its own soft decay—
brown toast, brown leaves,
brown light on a brown chair.
Here, even the rot tries to look polite.
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