MadameBastet-firing-neurons

MadameBastet-firing-neurons

Disenchanted

Everyone knows
that Sunday kind of sadness;
the pale decline of universal despair
that hangs delicately around the edges
of the dinner table, the laundry basket, the empty chairs...
as the pink-orange crush of dusk
drops slowly down
the velvet blanket of jasmine and musk
far away voices and far away sounds

And you knew
this
was
the
end.

The promise
was forgotten.
And the small, sad, empty feeling
you felt
watching The Wonderful World of Disney
staring through the windows at the falling darkness
and Tinkerbell in stardust flying away
comes back to you now...

...in cars and bars and steel gray cubicles
at high noon and in the shrill tinny banter
of silver spoons and conversations in conference rooms.

Everyone knows
that Sunday kind of sadness
sitting alone on the front porch steps
the sky bleeding pink into gunmetal grey
and you
listening to the distant hum of the dishwasher
the faraway rushing of the bathwater upstairs
and the television in the den ticking away
"60 Minutes"
(sometimes, you watched The Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew)
while Mom ironed your little shirts
and you knew
that it was over
again...

....like you do now
and you think how
you would've made Nietzsche, Sartre and Camus
oh so proud.