Sundays are for rumination

or ruination?

its hour come round at last

all of this anticipation, this breath held
waiting ... where will it end, d’you think?
some of us assume we’ll all be fired, let go
into the world’s indifference, to wander

purposeless and demeaned, begging
for scraps. others anticipate coming out
on top, in charge of the new regime,
writing themselves starring roles

in the script. a select few affect casual
acceptance, elevating uncertainty to
a sort of static bliss. who cares? they
shrug, and smile, hands in their pockets.

all this human business and busyness,
while nature, faceless, stands at the wheel.