Sunday. The day's all mine;
I take my waking slow.
Lumberjack coffee mingles
with Sonny Rollins' sax;

a hot shower untangles nerves.

Then to the bookstore.
Bashevis Singer, Salinger
spice up my supermarket
basket, the greens mouth Yiddish.

Cigarettes. Beer. Wine. Newspapers.
Pit stop at Don Pedro,
an uphill walk up cobblestones
to cold stone in the day's dying heat.

A bleached blond crumpled by years
singing an old ballad greets me, coughs, spits.

The drinking begins; things start to blur.
A crucifix draped in Christmas lights winks.

8:15. Cold chicken tames a coke tongue.
The old man in the balcony across from me
waves, drops eyes to the crowds snaking
up the streets. I tag along behind beer glass.

I wake up with clothes on, pants down.
It's dark outside, quiet. My arms ache for you.

Another day off. Without you. Sleep.