Sunday morning and a siren wails
like a midnight clarinetist
caught in a loop, fading,
as the unseen ambulance passes on its way
to someone else’s nightmare,
and the sound of the wind
comes back together like water
over a dropped stone.
In the street leaves dance
a round or two
and then retire, exhausted and confused,
like old folk in a waiting room,
while overhead a plane pursues its mission,
ferrying passengers across the Styx
to their final destinations.
The winter sun, wan and watered down,
is working hard to wake a world
reluctant to relax its grip on sleep.
Someone ought to let it know,
it’s Sunday morning. Let it go.