Sunday Morning

The book I ordered on Amazon finally arrived:

My first tangible collaboration of Bukowski poetry.

I continued my journey through his poetry on my front porch,

surrounded by the multitude of flowers that my mother planted

and my half-eaten watermelon,

the sunrays hitting the pages in a way that I could read without trouble,

both my legs curled up to my chest on my rocking chair, preventing me from doing any actual rocking.

I remembered that it was Sunday,

and how no one ever appreciates the serenity that is Sunday morning.

Instead, it's been replaced by the hustle and bustle of cleaning the entire house

and buying everything in the grocery store

and going out to a breakfast that lasts barely forty-five minutes

and having no time to rejuvenate from the week.

But there I was

with my book and my half-eaten watermelon and my rocking chair

unlike any other person who is also on the edge of seventeen,

appreciating time like one would if they were eighty.

My soul might as well be eighty,

for sixteen-year-olds don't typically read poetry by some old white guy on their front porch on Sunday mornings.

But I do.

And you should be so lucky to find someone like me.

And then I put one of my legs down, allowing myself to actually make use of the rocking chair

and continued to read poetry by some old white guy on my porch

on Sunday morning.

Reviews

[Serendipity Planet]

I am addicted now
I can't stop reading your poems , they are just much better , they touching me deep

[Abbie]

Why thank you very much :)

[C Peril]

A well thought out poem with an interesting premise. I wish I had the capacity to enjoy a Sunday morning like that. For me Sundays have been spoilt; they are the prelude to hectic, draining Mondays. Glad to hear someone still enjoys them!