Last Sunday

or   The Long Way Home

My friend invited me:
“Come,” he said, “dine with me.”
“I will,” I said, “come to dine.”
I expected to be on time
But got distracted by the game
And arrived late
With some other guests.

The meal had begun.  Just
As we sat down my friend
Stood and said how glad
He was we were all together.
It was, he said, heaven.
How nice, I thought, for him to say

Especially that day
When heaven seemed far from me.
As we ate I could feel
Time passing by.
Others noticed too,
Restless, looking to go
Whenever they could.

Mumbling something I stood
Soon after I had eaten,
(Some looked up, our eyes meeting.)
And left my friend’s home.
But, I wasn’t alone.
I did not see him when I left.
Wondered if he’d noticed, yet
There were things to do.
He’d understand I was sure.
I lit a cigarette outside,

I felt good, and thought I’d drive
The long way home.
I like the fellow
Really…you know I do
But, sometimes there things do drag on
I thought on the long way home.

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About Peadar Ban

There isn't much to say. I am here. I am here. I am here.
This entry was posted in Lies We Hide Behind, Poetry, Truth and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Last Sunday

  1. Joe Willmore says:

    The older I get, the analogy falls a little short. I tend to arrive early and linger longer after the meal. The peace and silent internal joy can be savored longer that way.

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