Sweet Sundays

He makes me breakfast in bed:
Toast with scrambled eggs
Cooled by a glass of orange juice
Every Sunday.
We drawl through the hours;
Sprawling deliberately, they’re ours
To spend in any which way;
It is Sunday.
And he talks with his arms;
Unbuttoning boyish charms;
Tousles my hair and laughs,
“It’s Sunday.”
I shake him off and flee;
Now I’m caught, now I’m free;
It’s our game of cat and mouse
Of Sundays.
We break off rose from stem
We dawdle in green mayhem
Amidst ferns, bushes gone wild
On this lazy Sunday.
I breathe in his sweaty scent;
Gasping as I lay still: spent.
The darkness dips warm and content
In the wine of our Sunday.