longed for sunday.

so last night i longed for sunday.

the thing i miss most is the sweet tea my mother would make in a large pot and pour into a kool-aid pitcher.

i found my flip flops and howard university sweatpants and made my way to the front door to begin my mission to obtain a bottle of arizona sweet tea; country style.

if the almost-night's drizzle didn't change my mind about the walk to the corner store, neither would the three junkies that sat on milk crates two feet away from my stoop engaged in indecent conversation about old lady fannie's big ass drawls.

something about these old men reminded me of my father.
i walked a little faster.

between the aisle where the bread and transmission fluid were kept and the candy section, i fell into a deep yearning for tomorrow.

there's something about this time of the night that made me want to sit under a tin covering while it poured and the wind blew, leaving drops of rain just inches from my toes.
my hand hugging a sweating glass of cold sweet tea and the other hand engaged in instant message conversations with whomever.

there's something about the not-so-light/not-so-dark sky that makes me want to do better with my life, but at the same time it lets me know that i'm where i'm supposed to be.

...and then i snap to.

'ready for the rain?' the short, grandmotherly persian lady asked from behind the counter, taking my money for the tea and a pack of california fruit starburst.

'yeah.' i walked out eating one of the blue pieces.

the sky reminded me that i never cry.

i sometimes listen to the sad songs on my 'i feel like crying' itunes playlist and try to conjure up a few tears, but it never works. i always end up writing a new poem, or starting the newest great american novel. and then i feel better because i've gotten out my frustrations.

the sky reminded me that tonight i promised to sleep alone.

snap a photo, pass the junkies, through the fence, over the welcome mat and through the front door.
i found myself on my bed listening to 'a bitter song' by butterfly boucher...

and crying through ink.

the rain began...and the clock tipped into a new day.

germany must have known such sundays.