Sunday Morning

A woman delicately describes a one-night-stand that is a reoccuring experience for her

Morning throbs onto horizon
He’s sleeping dead
One of dozen

Slipping on linen
Once I find them
Skitter out like red robin

Lewis, Carl, Matthew, Arthur
But names don’t matter
When bodies wander

Head is dry
Energy is falling
Sunday Morning
And he’s not calling

[NOTE: This poem does not directly reflect me or my lifestyle, but is moreover something of my dramatic imagination. ]