It’s always Sunday for butterflies
They watch the beauty of creation every day
It’s always Sundays for Dolmens
They watch the grass grow and the birds fly
It’s always Sunday waiting for the post
Never comes and you wait
Waiting for the card that gives you
Acknowledgement of 80%
80% disabled. As if that means anything
Connect to the machine and hope you don’t leak
It doesn’t work and they add a new catheter.
Then a fistula
Then when they can finally clean your blood
You thank them for their help
And thank the system for its work
And thank chance you are being treated
And think about the people who aren’t
Because they live elsewhere.
They live in Sunday. With the butterflies and the Dolmens
You practice the techniques till you’re perfect
Boredom perfect or numb
Inflicted on your family
They’ve spent time with worry lined faces
Holding their breath
Living in Sundays.
The day of rest.