Sunday Morning Coming Down

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Church bells beat my alarm to my ears
And there ain’t no going back down.

In the fridge there is a carton of orange juice and a can of beer,
a gander at the calendar confirms Busch is today’s breakfast

snatch a flannel from the floor
Pull up some breeches from the hamper

A hat’s thrown on my head
And I’m out the door

I take the long way around town to avoid the Methodists
I cut through an alley taking precautions against the Baptists

I pass the Episcopalian church
I ain’t too sure if there are any of em’in there

By the time I’m down yonder approaching the porch
I’m damn well sure I’m making a mistake

I sit behind the rusted john-boat and smoke a cigarette to clear my head
I splash on cologne from my shirt pocket to hide the stench

I walk into the house to be greeted by a creaky floor
The memory of the smell of pot roast is the only thing that feels welcoming

I take my seat at the table
As the ghosts begin to talk

They ask me about what I know
That new job and so on

I clean my plate
Hug my mama

Daddy tells me he’s proud of me
If he ever meant it

I hit the sidewalk
The good ole boys pass by in their truck

I light up my second
And pray for this day to end

Jake Harzbecker is a sophomore at Cumberland University where he is double majoring in English and Creative Writing. He is also a member of the Nu chapter of Sigma Chi. He originally started writing poetry as an alternative to journaling and now finds it to be his favorite pastime

NOVUS Literary and
Arts Journal
Lebanon, TN