It’s Sunday

It isn’t, but you invoke it
To fetch that sense of leisurely
Life sometimes allowed on Sundays.

What can you, can anyone
Do about grace? See how white paint
Keeps flaking from the wooden chair

So that the chair is beautiful
In its excess texture, extra
Sun in its desert? That’s Sunday,

When you’re allowed to savor it.
Grace is not having to do this,
Not having to perform for grace,

The door open to the barren
Afternoon needs nothing from you.