Oh! A Sunday

On Sundays my abode virtually shifts
 to a noiseless place.  A haven
in heaven.

 Early morning my brass bolstered
red gate displays variegated items,
Newspapers shoved between them

milk sachet in a suspended bag.
I engage in solving sudoku and crossword
 puzzle, hunger creates a commotion,

My criminal tastebuds do not brook
 unpalatable food, demand the best
taken out of stove.

if salt, Karam, go astray the tongue  
mercilessly denies permission
forces a revision, heartless autocrat,

Washing the vessels, drying them out
in the sun, a diabolical practice I do,
embroils me.

In the unmanned house, I am
the only woman running errands
 heaving and mumbling

In the midst, I question,
 why do Sundays come
week after week?


By meenas17

A lover of classical Carnatic music.
An avid reader, passionate writer, into stocks and investments for livelihood

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