SUNDAY

Getting up in the morning
I take my hunting gun down from the wall,
shoot the coffee on the table
and slowly yawn.

I walk into the ocean.
When I lie back on the waves
my face and ignorant toes
poke through the surface.

Then
my back timorously questions
“May I sleep now?”,
while my thighs don’t know what to do with themselves.
Only my hands, not forgetting,
knowingly paddle little by little.

I get out of the ocean.
On the beach I pick up a fish as large as myself and sling it across my shoulder.
I hoist its slimy weight into place.
Still alive, it sometimes twists and turns
and makes me stagger.

A young girl with erect nipples comes towards me.
I put the fish down.
I remove the straw wrapping from around my penis.

SUNDAY