Author and Columnist Shelly Reuben

I’ll get up! I’ll get up!

I said. I said.

As I snuggled beneath my quilt.

I hid my head

And played quite dead.

Without a scintilla of guilt!

Well, what the hell,

I exclaimed to myself.

It is Sunday, my time to goof off.

I can dawdle all day

From the moment I wake

And who’d dare to call me a sloth?

I can read Conan Doyle

Or favorite poems,

And all without leaving my bed.

Or I can get up,

Defy gravity, too,

If I’d rather be active, instead.

I can preheat the oven

And grease up a pan

To bake cookies … a dozen or two.

Oatmeal with raisins

Or chocolate chip.

And I can give thirteen to you!

It’s Sunday! It’s Sunday!

A day to relax.

I don’t have to schedule a thing.

Should you come to my door

And press on my bell,

I won’t have to answer the ring!

I can welcome you in

Or pretend I’m not home.

I can go for a walk, if I like.

I can prune all my roses

And spray them for mites,

Or pedal around on my bike.

I can watch great old movies;

Rebecca! Jane Eyre!

And wait for the hero to die.

Vintage Hollywood stars

(So much larger than life)

Unfailingly cause me to cry.

Instead of TV

I can go out to eat.

Let some restaurant cook me a meal.

Then dive into my plate

Filled with bacon and eggs,

With most inappropriate zeal.

But frankly, all that

Seems like way too much work.

After all, it’s of Sunday we muse.

And the train of our thought

(That of staying inert)

We really would rather not lose.

This all started out

With us barely awake,

Refusing to get out of bed.

And despite other options

(Like cookies and bikes,

And watching old movies, instead).

I think that, in fact,

What a Sunday requires…

Isaac Newton expressed it the best:

Is that bodies in motion

Continue to move

While the rest of us just stay at rest!

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2025. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, vibasit www.shellyreuben.com