Sunday Morning Blues

A.D. Winans

there is this kind of motionless motion

children crying themselves to sleep

the taste of sunsets for breakfast

and champagne for lunch

there is this kind of mellow music

hills made of wild strawberries

salt on hard boiled eggs

Peanuts in the comic strips

and radio DJ's with god awful jokes

that see me through another morning

there is this kind of sadness

the feeling of dull razor blades

sliding across smooth skin

Marilyn Monroe suicides and weekends

with nothing to do

heart attacks from love or lack of it

funerals with no mourners

poets with little future

and lovers with no one to love