Sunday-Monday

That hour between  midnight and one AM always seems like a bridge to me. Today flinched to yesterday…technically.  But  your still-coursing heart, still -dancing limbs, still-open eyes, and mind that can reach back to breakfast belie a new day’s beginning.

In the smaller cities it is a silent hour. The practical are asleep. Those who know better are moving toward that state, but in no hurry. The naive, the willful, and the devil-may-care are damning the torpedoes.

I know better. But tonight, arrogant from a midday nap, sated on the molho of a fine day, and a sweet, rich night, I am willful: caught somewhere between adamant and supplicant that  Monday will falter. Maybe twist an ankle and have to postpone its appearance?

I would bring you soup, Monday, if you were  laid up for a while, and placate your fears. Sunday is a workhorse! She can carry your load. Now, just rest. Put your feet up. You deserve it. Don’t fret now. We can bear a week without you.

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