A Quiet Sunday

Since you don't feel the need to write to me, I endlessly type nonsensical words onto floating electric clouds. Since you won't phone me, not even on a Sunday, when in England, there is nothing much to do but read a book, I am a little dispirited, even though we are long divorced. I wonder just what book you are reading. Once you read my poetry, once we made love for 8 hours never leaving the tussled bed for long, that was on a Sunday. Today is another Sunday. No mail on Sunday, yet I look out my front window look at my mailbox - mind-talk to it, imagine your mind listening, as you read a romance novel a sad one, one that does not end well.