BB Grey–musings

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Chapter: Corduroy Communion

Sunday arrived like an unasked question.
I thought of walking,
right after thinking I should lose ten pounds
before Thanksgiving makes martyrs of us all.

But the bed conspired against me.
I read, I scrolled,
until I saw them—corduroy pants,
soft-ribbed armor I’ve wanted for years.

I’ll buy them when I’ve lost the weight.
As if joy must be earned,
never simply taken.

The world slept at four.
By six, I wanted to blast Morrissey,
burn toast, drink a third coffee,
let melancholy drip like butter
onto a warm pop-tart.

But silence stayed.
And maybe silence was the song.

Church was on the agenda.
Instead I took communion with keys—
exercising fingers instead of faith,
trading ritual for thought.

Southern California held its breath.
No protests yet,
no outrage staged for the ’gram,
just quiet concrete waiting to be disturbed.

I am no reporter.
My rebellion is smaller.
To think for myself,
to refuse to waste this mind
on other people’s opinions.

So here we are.
Sunday can be easy like Lionel,
or grey like Morrissey.
Today, it’s something in between—
a held breath before the week begins.

I stay here.
Imaginary corduroy warming me,
writing my way into grace.

Be still.
And know.

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