This is called, "Sunday."
And I hate Sunday.
To me it's like sailing off the edge of the world.
It's like Columbus, something--
going to fall off, Columbus.
He should have come--
He should have landed in America on Sunday.
Maybe he never would have made it.
[LAUGHTER]
And the first line is-- the title is also the first line.
Sunday changeling props a coffin against my door.
Stains the windows with its brown curtains.
Floats belly up and in my glass of water.
I see its back in my mirror.
Its hands walking in my shoes.
I smell its piss odor in my underwear.
And when it peels off the sheet onto my body,
I yell, grab for its throat, and get its mud heart
shaped like a box and just full of things you can't quite
put your finger on.