The Sunday clouds are a tease
The blue-sky-no-more is now a grey freeze.

He sits by the window, sipping on dark beer
His mind is miles away, wondering about her.

Is she having a sunny Sunday in her world?
Is her new lover making her world go round?
Does he kiss her with his eyes closed?
Does he take her name like in melody like he would?

Is she wearing her one of her blue, floral, summer dresses?
Has she told him she loved it when HE would play with her streaked tresses?

Does she drink rum with him?
Does she ever break into a hum
Of her fave Sinatra number
That meant love for HIM and her.

So many questions now run through his head,
His soul pulls, his heart is in a bind.

He looks at the dolled-up woman sitting across
She peers over her phone – and fixes her lip-gloss.
His mind races, his senses are numb
In a long time, he feels it’s a Sunday so numb.

He misses her chatter, her banter
Her easy friendship with his geriatric neighbour.
He hated her cooking, it was salty and tasted awful
But this Sunday he wants of that a mouthful.