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Come Sunday

de Scott Cossu

I had worked on my own for awhile
As a man who cleaned each crooked mile
But I quit when my heart became vile;
When my eyes took each passing load

Then I lived like a dog for a time
On a leash of my own meager rhyme
With the whip and lash of each selfish crime
Hear me whimper on down the road

I swear I'll never know the things you've known
Or the gifts that to me you've bestowed

See the man who, dragging cigarettes, assumes
That the girl sitting way across the room
Holds no curse: A foolish thought to presume;
A thoughtless act to stare

So he'll leave with no sign, no gesture
But a sigh, as he grips to his vesture;
As he grips to that most nostalgic semester
Of a time more or less impaired

I swear I'll be nobody's wreck to repair
But a tool for each soul in despair

By the crossing of Concord and Main
Where the church and stone steeple remain
There I walked, and tore my fate in twain;
There I died, and there I rise

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