One Sunday

and you wake me on a Sunday
and you sit me up in bed
and you talk in only whispers
and you praise the day ahead
and you throw me your old sweater
and you get me in my pants
and you help me tie a shoelace when you tell me of your plan
and you put me on the subway
and you hold my head up high
and you nod at sad eyed widows
and you watch the clouds roll by
and you walk me to the harbor
and you take me by the hand
and you lead me through the market past the bonbon stand
and you point at starving seagulls
and you imitate their sound
and you trick me to the river where there’s no one else around
and you pull me in the water
and you kiss me on cocaine
and you push and keep me under and change the kind of pain
and you take me from the harbor in your arms and in your hands
and you lead me through the market
and you pass the bonbon stand
and you put me on the subway
and you hold my head up high
and you smile at dressy Christians while their kids play in the aisle
and you tip the morning desk clerk
and you lay me back in bed
and you say I’m more than welcome
and you leave me there more alive than dead