I sit at home
at my desk alone
as I use todo
on many Sunday afternoons
when you came back to me,
your arms ached for me,
ans your arms would close me in
though they smelled of other women.
I think of you
on Sunday afternoons.
Your sweet head would bow,
like child somehow,
down to me---
and your hair and your eyes were wild.
We would embrace on the floor-
You see my back's still sore.
You knew how easely I bruised,
It's a soreness I would never lose.
I think of you
on Sunday afternoons
