July 9, 2007 | Filed under: Is She Still Talking?

Oh, Sunday night. Beloved
Sunday night. The last few hours
of respite before another hectic workweek begins.
Your ways
are beguiling. I am tired,
winding down, headed to bed.
I settle into bed, tucked
beneath my downy comforter, awaiting your soothing voice
to carry me off to sleep.

But you, Sunday night, you have other plans.
You stir the pot.
You rile things up.
You turn on parts of my brain that have long been silenced.
The sleep for which I long,
you do not bring.
For two fricking hours.

I lie awake. You
turn the light on and bring me a book
to read. I oblige, hoping
that this will please you, while trying
not to think about how very few
minutes there are before the alarm will sound,
wondering how hard
I would have to hit my head against the wall to knock myself out.

Dearest Sunday night. How to express
the depths of my emotion for you?
I struggle to find the right
words, but let me try:
HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE

Ed. note: This is best recited at a coffehouse open mic night, clad entirely in black. Perhaps while wearing a beret.