• smitanand 10w

    Vintage Sundays...

    I remember those vintage sundays
    from a childhood now archaic,
    soft as a feathery caress,
    or as kisses peppered by drizzles,
    soothing as invisible fingers
    of cool summer breeze wiping
    perspiring brows at noon.

    A blend of leisure and laughter
    like coffee and chocolate
    in a steaming cup of mocha latte,
    the swirling skirts, easy banter
    mythology sitcoms on television
    watched with reverent delight,
    a breakfast to die for,
    waking up to
    magical world of Disney, literally
    and old songs hummed, sang aloud
    or whistled by my papa.

    The kitchen was a poetry of aromas,
    an altar of alluring flavors
    and a frenzy of activity,
    we indulged in
    long evening walks when the sun
    spilled claret on denim skies,
    and watched late night movies
    long past bedtime.

    the Sunday is anorectic
    and bulimic
    a stench of stressful eructations
    lingers in its corners,
    it is abbreviated, almost transient,

    as it rises lazily, bleary eyed at noon
    and gobbles a brunch
    of mindless noodles,
    snatches a few hours of respite
    before Monday blues
    submerge its chirpy moods
    and it melts away as an icelolly
    in the heat of apprehension...