On Sundays

Updated: Mar 20, 2021

On Sundays we composed our own music.


Tapped a nickel against a mailbox,

pounded the wall with the heel of our

palms, and sought a demo-type sound.


Sundays were the sound of a tobacco patch crashing on the tip

of a boot.

The nimbus of gospel & game rejoicing at the feet of laughter

& loot.


Saint Martin held us down in word if not in deed.

Santa Barbara held us down in word if not in need.

San Lazaro held us down in pocket if not in feed.


On Sundays, number slips trickled from Maxi’s

sleeves, & dream books slept on discount racks.


Sundays were for our best clothes, which meant that every day

was Sunday.


Two birds sat on a crucifix, and grandma’s church

hat was damn near auctioned at the Player’s Ball.


Sundays were for sonnets & aunties, bonnets & Bibles, a

mourning dove nesting near your window guard, a rumor

upgraded to libel, making babies to a faint chirp & being

late to your Confirmation.


Everything damn near legal was damn near closed on Sunday.


On Sundays, we had to give up a piece of our burning.


- Willie Perdomo


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