Two Hours on Sunday

To be back
here in front
of the font
and the want,

it's like breathing
the fair air.
Here, I think less 
about hair air.

Tare me.
My container
weighs as much
as I do.

I might cry
for the happiness.
The high backed chair
is taking the tears

out the back
of my bun. 
It's a mess back there
and that's

the way.
These butterfly dreams
make the days
whole again.