Sunday

The whistle blows
far away
It's through a fog
 
I gaze upon the room,
couch covered in broken pretzels,
table swarmed by empty cans
 
I right myself to clear the crumbs
twist backwards
to unkink my muscles
 
I think of this paradox
a feeling of triumph and victory
but one of disappointment and longing
 
Much like a druggie after a hit
I feel as high as a kite, soaring.
I want more
 
I'm rooted to the ground
a carnal craving.
So I wait
 
For Sunday