Sunday Morning still laid innocent in sheets,
barely half asleep.
Sunday Morning I was dreaming I was turning from a busy street
into a parking lot.
Sunday Morning broke and dragged me out of bed,
slightly less asleep.
Sunday Morning I was warming all the cold parts of my head
in cups and coffee pots.
In the Winter I wonder what it’s like to be anywhere else,
to be anywhere but here.
If I leave and don’t return I hope the factories get full
of people making furniture
with the river running clear.
Sunday Morning fell apart and back to sleep,
where I was running late,
where I looked out of place.
Sunday Morning pace of steady, nervous feet
headed for the church doors.
Sunday Morning dressed in suits and shades of black.
Sunday Morning soft in Sunday best.
Sunday someone’s never coming back here
to this place anymore.
In the Winter I wonder what it’s like to be anywhere else,
to be anywhere but here.
If I leave and don’t return I hope the factories get full
of people making furniture
with the river running clear.
Sunday Morning stared at rows of crowded pews.
Half or all asleep,
looking for a seat.
Sunday Morning waiting for a call from you
but didn’t hear my phone ring.
Sunday Morning had to sit and watch you bawl.
Sunday Morning left the ringer off.
Sunday Morning missed it when you called and
couldn’t do a thing
but watch.
In the Winter I wonder what it’s like to be where you are
where you are, where you are.
In the Winter I wonder what it’d be like if you were still here.
Would the factories fill?
Would the river run clear?
Would the river run?
Sunday Morning dreamt about a moment passed,
about a time I failed.
Sunday Morning I was staring at a clock
trying to push it back.
Sunday Morning wished to be a kid.
Sunday Morning shook me all the way awake.
Stirred me from the dream.
Sunday Morning I was thinking of a phone call I should make
You never did.
I never did.
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