It’s lazy late and luxurious
the sleepy Sunday afternoon.
There is a pause and, familiar,
the blissful fatigue that comes
from drinking too much red wine at lunch
and watching fishing shows all afternoon.

We had Sunday roast and then
lay on the couch, arms and legs about.
We watched a trout get caught,
kissed, thrown back for tomorrow,
and we talked about a trip that
we probably won’t take,
we kiss and throw it back.

We are rested, restful, resting.
We are pregnant with the week.