Sunday evening on the front porch sipping coffee, weakly brewed, not strong enough to keep the sleep away, facing the reality of another work week, filled with long and empty days, as the sun disappears like a coward behind my back. A sigh escapes, as thoughts turn to the challenges faced, and the obstacles to overcome in this upcoming week. The responsibilities of a 21st century American sucking the fun out of life, like an oversized vacuum, knowing deep down the American Dream long dead, as I sit this Sunday evening on the front porch, drinking lukewarm coffee.


Dirty dishes overwhelm my state of mind,
as if re-enforcements called up in the middle of the night,
hoping I will be awed into a state of depression,
by this massive numerical show of strength,

retreating to the bathroom,
shower time used to plan evasive maneuvers,
hoping to reach the outside world before giving in to despair,

In the bedroom I get my undershorts and socks,
both items being my last clean pairs,
but suddenly realize,
humiliation waits ahead,

neither clean shirt nor jeans exist in this universe of my creation,
thus forced to dig and sniff until the nausea sets in,
or I am totally clothed,

finally finding myself at the front door,
I rejoice in the fact the workday can now begin.

Polk is a writer of poetry from central Nebraska. Feeling persecuted most of his life he has published three books of poetry; In My Defense, The Defense Rests, and On Appeal. He lives with his wife and two boys and two dogs on the plains of Nebraska.

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