Alone On A Sunday

All weekend I was on my own. I played Etta James and Nina Simone. Saxophone and stillness. I played Marianne Faithful, the German stuff. Beer halls and piano accordions.

The house was clean. Spotless. Shining. I'd even washed the floors.

I didn't go outside, except to get the newspapers, which I devoured with joint after joint. Then I was stoned and the rest of the world faded away. 

I was surprised to see people when I went to get more milk in the arvo. Suddenly they were there, I get used to being on my own, so easily.

I lay on the couch. My head spun.

The light was golden. Birds chirped. Nina really did sound like a bloke. I lay on the couch and let the music take me away. The light faded, the day drifted away.