Late Sunday

She made an awkward snow angel
on her bedroom floor, limbs splayed
around, back bending from the crick
in her neck. Her face glazed out
of several rooms, a sore-eyes sigh
passed her teeth as she stared
past the ceiling, thinking the future
over and over, worried tonight for
her sister and bitten by that old
Sunday night melancholy gnat.

It was humid, I tried to talk her
up off of the floor, she was calm
and sad, thinking of life and all
its little dislocations. She sat, stood,
blinked, thought, said thanks she
felt better. I watched her curl up
nearly foetal on the bed and rub
her feet one over the other, that's
normal but I knew from her elsewhere
eyes her train was thought to ribbons
like a T-shirt thorned out in the wilds,
by money worries guilt and ardour.
When she tried to smile I loved her.