Sunday

Sundays I usually procrastinate,
Idle in bed, splash in the tub.
I drag myself around the house in pajamas.
I receive no one; do not go out.

I don’t do much thinking,
Make no effort to forget,
Make no effort to remember.
I pamper myself, so the moment some thought
Gets caught by a door handle,
I cross my arms, light a cigarette
And with its smoke chase away demons in short pants
That lurk around me and draw close.

Together with me everything in my house drowses.
Everything is sleepy and lazy like me.
Table and chairs, the carpets over which I walk,
Flower pots and flowers in a vase,
The books and their heroes—
Are all napping as if they were vacationing.

We all get along just fine.
We don’t need anybody.
They doze
While I make myself a nest in some verse
Like a sparrow under the eaves.