Sunday Afternoon

It all looks dry and bland, like bread that's just going stale.
Like the crossroad is the only one in some tiny town in the middle of nowhere.
Dusty old TV show on mute.

The mountains look further away than usual, even painted.
Like those paintings that people's Oumas had when we were younger.
Musty rooms with drawn curtains and wooden kists.

I slow my walk to drink it in.
My shadow is longer and thinner than me against the yellowing light.

I turn the corner and wet my lips to whistle at the boy in the grey sweats.
I'm in for the afternoon.