Sundays

People pace around on their toes,
on Sundays, afraid to go back
to their bosses.

The cars all sit lifeless
in the parking lot,
petrified
until they are told.

The strays have nothing to eat,
and drink the water dripping
down the length of rusted downspouts,
hoping all the lights will stay off.

Still, they are freer than most,
able to go anywhere
they can carry themselves.

The speed of the sun is apparent,
and the day will end quickly.
Rain will rise from the earth
back up into the sky.