It Must Be Sunday

Women with haunches like Clydesdales
Canter past me grasping beef-neck boyfriends
My stomach is fighting a losing battle
With last night’s bourbon
My eyes wrestle with the slender rays of sun
That slip past my sunglasses
My elbow throbs and oozes
The path home obstructed by construction
I can’t even taste the cigarette
That is burning my chest
It must be Sunday

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