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Sunday morning quiet, with closed bedroom blinds and curtains.
Cars sit in concrete drives... waiting for manic Monday.
Fit, young men gather together their football gear.
The pleading of church bells... ring in hope,
As the religious gargle in bathrooms, in order,
To be of the finest voice for hymn and psalm.
Young lovers snuggle warm and repeat last night.
Children beg breakfast and attention.
Cats come home with tales to tell.
Soon, buckets of soapy water will wash cars.
Lawn mowers will glide over grass.
Joggers will jog, to the sounds of their choice.
Mothers will be tied to the roasting kitchen,
And the town will breakfast...
on these Sunday rituals.