Become a
Premium Member
and post notes and photos about your poem like Bob Kimmerling.
Sunday driver,
with leather driving gloves at 10 to 2 upon the wheel.
Walnut dashboard polished bright, with wife bedside in Sunday hat,
both Singing Something Simple with lazy Sunday feel.
Going nowhere in a hurry, two children in the back
spying with their little eyes something high and something blue,
and beginning with an S, a really easy clue.
Sunday driver,
with bonnet chamois-washed and cleaned of birdy dirt,
and a body shined with wax, irritating those behind,
only two cars tailing back, who would really like to drive
just a little bit faster on their lazy Sunday track.
There are no Sunday drivers now, three cars in a row.
There are no Sunday drivers, dressed in their Sunday best,
with cleaned and combed quiet children, two children both in tow.
For every day is driven, and Sunday is not blessed.
Yes, every day is driven, there is no Sabbath rest.