Working on Sundays

Dust rising from the factory

floor reminds her

of the risen God she no

longer has the time

to worship. 

A five minute conversation

with his boy

makes that union-required

lunch break a little less

hollow and distant. 

A quick game of catch,

a tea party with the ‘ladies’

fall of the frailing shoulders

of grandparents. 

Tops of small heads

are kissed,

engines rumble to life–

car’s up for inspection,

add that to the list, dear–

as we rush to work

on Sundays. 


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