Sunday morning

Sunday morning with its slow motions. The porch a frustration with its layers of dirt spit up from the road. The pressboard home going up across the street looks like vomit. Around where the picture window will go, the paper hangs down like a tear drop in a Man Ray photo, way more beautiful than Old Glory drooping over the stoop of the next house over. The 9 a.m. sun shining bright, but not on the new construction. The foundation, deep gray, in shadow. The cars already go by at steady intervals. Living in the valley of the SUVs. Almost wanting to pick up a rock and chuck it at the next one that passes. Like when I was five, and mom and I were living in our first apartment after the divorce, on Watertown Ave not far from the stadium, how I'd chuck rocks from our dirt-and-rock lot separated from the road by a steep slope and a few layers of trees, mostly pines, I think. How I'd thought I'd hit a couple of cars until finally I heard the thunk of hitting one, probably on the roof or trunk, I'd suppose later. How I never felt bad, and kept on throwing rocks, or snowballs, for the rest of the year, or however long it was, that we lived there. But of course now I just grab my empty mug and head back inside, which is good I guess.