Sunday rises gallantly from behind
Distant clouds, orange, on the wall
Of low, chintzy, tepid skies.

Bells sound with tamed decibels
Through tiny holes on top cupolas of
Rounded, gilded cathedrals to welcome

A yellow day that reclines on the edge
Of the week. Sunday salutes the spunk
Of yesterday — a punctilious Saturday —

And wins souls for the church,
Grace for the meek,
Respite for the inebriated.

It comes with tales of carousals and circuses
Of a fragmented society of asses and asinine
Quarters, as posted on Sunday paper.