Poem: A Sunday Afternoon

A Sunday Afternoon 

On a Sunday afternoon, when the cold air seeps in through the cracks in the wall,

I sit among the purples, reds and blues waiting for you to call.

You have left you say to a place where I cannot go.

It’s your revenge or idea of an independent show.

So I wait alone and left inside with nothing more 

to read except the T.V. Guide..

I wait thinking that I can survive.

My strength for the moment needs to reside,

in the sunset and your sure return.. And

just as I’m about to leave with a note of farewell,

your key in the lock assures me and my doubt does dispel.

The smiles are there and my breathing resumes.

“Where are we?” you ask, in a triumphant voice. 

“Who are we?” I respond, with the glee of rejoice,

on a Sunday afternoon.

By: Ann Carol Koermer                              

 4/12/19