Rainy Sunday Morning Blues
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For Ted Deppe
Early Sunday morning, everybody still in bed.
A rainy Sunday morning, even the dog is still in bed.
Take a coat but no umbrella, let the water clear my head.
It isn’t yet September, but the leaves are burning brown.
Only August twenty-second, leaves already turning brown.
Every time the wind blows, another leaf comes down.
Church and graveyard on the corner, but I don’t know a soul in there.
Sea fog crawling through the graveyard—I don’t know a soul in there.
Someday I’ll be lying with them, water pooling in my hair.
This is where I stop and listen to the waves against the sand.
Sometimes I stop a while and listen. Waves roll up against the sand.
They’ve been wearing on those boulders since this troubled world began.
I’ve been walking for hours, and I’m soaked through to my skin.
Been outside for hours now, letting rain soak through my skin.
Feels like I’m drowning out here, water out and water in.
I should head home, face the bad news, walk back the way I came.
Time to head back to the bad news, back the weary way I came.
Weary street, weary sidewalk. Weary Sunday. Weary rain.