Sunday · Edward Lee

The slow rise of the sun
tells me this is going to be
a slow day, a day when
I need not rise
until my back aches
against the old springs
of the knowing bed,
and my first sip of caffeine
will be taken
under the too big tree
in the too small back garden,
the freshly delivered papers fanned
across the patio table,
waiting to be read
whenever I gather my mind
to set their temporary tattooed knowledge free,
or maybe whatever book
I’m pretending to absorb
will be finished, or
a new one better suited
to my stunted concentration begun,
while undemanding music plays
from the kitchen radio
which belonged to your father
decades before our first kiss,
and I force myself to imagine
as we once imagined
that a day like this
need never end,
until it does, gently,
with dinner and glass of wine
or two, while the ghost of you
sits across from me
smiling that smile
you smiled when the doctors told us
you had so few Sundays left
and we should
live them however we wished.


Edward Lee's poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. His debut poetry collection Playing Poohsticks On Ha'Penny Bridge was published in 2010. He is currently working towards a second collection. edwardmlee.wordpress.com