it's Sunday again

i crack and egg

into the black pan, then

another.

the butter sizzles.

it feels like Sunday.

a few strips of bacon.

some toast,

some jam.

coffee.

i bring the paper in

off the stoop.

i see the ghost of my

mother,

the impending death of

my father.

i'll listen once more

to his voice

on the phone.

it's Sunday again.