POEM: GADIATORS' POUNCE

POEM :   He asks me
do  you know what Sunday is?

I search the inner workings  of my brain.  it is stuffed with days, times, things and more things
Sunday is the gentlest  day of the week, the most
universally silent of moments.  even cars drive slower, quieter
Sunday is my day to recover
not from work but from life

sunday  is……….
He is excited.  he is in anticipatory mode
as if he is about to launch the most exciting of adventures
but he doesn't go anywhere
he is home bound, by choice.

sunday is
and i, who shy away from local news
who turns on media to be entertained
not informed
 who travels when necessary
by car and elevators
detached from life forces

Food appears in plastic bubbles
and trees are reduced
 prepackaged logs to be burnt
or paper to be used and discarded.

Sunday is
no no! I can hear I am wrong
 his immediate breath
transmitted along  invisible  airlines  drops a fraction
I am off, out of tune
 out of synch

far from hot.

 cold as the weather
cold with ignorance
a woman again,
stupid because...

I know, I know
I say
I am thinking about shopping, what I usually buy
on Sunday and i am imagining Sunday
Chicago North Side
where the streets are so quiet,
painfully
enticing
no one is running, yelling
pushing

Sunday is a day when
men disappear and women rule

I know, I say again, happily and he is
excited too because
I do know and he knows that I know
and we know that he, by acceptable silent consent
 will be
 inside, at home..
and I will be out.;…  out
of harm's way

the Game I pronounce
the Game
and we yelps and I smile
no need to say which game
because at this moment there is only one game,
the gladiators' pounce

hurrah
Hurrah!