Endless Sunday Calls​

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My friend will call on Sundays, just to bitch,

his job’s a hell, his daughter’s flunking out,

his son was born with trouble from the start,

his wife won’t quit her nagging for a day,

and spends the money far too fast, indeed;

his house too small, and prices far too high;

his car got hit, his neighbor’s such an ass.

 

I thank my stars my life’s so unlike his:

mine overflows with joy and happiness—

sometimes I lie awake and gnash my teeth

and cannot fall asleep from all the mirth,

a job I love (it hardly feels like work)—

I often scream that loudly at my boss—

two perfect children, patient, gentle wife,

no shouts or tantrums, never any strife—

at least no one has ever called the cops—

my lawn stays trimmed without my touching it,

my friends adore me, colleagues sing my praise;

thank God, they never think to come on by;

my taxes low, and prices just dirt cheap—

at times I feel I’m almost stealing things.

And traffic here flows smooth as honeyed milk,

a mountain freshet rushing down in spring;

I only honk the horn some fifty times

and flip the bird not much at all these days.

 

I’m glad I can “be there for him” each week,
though sometimes I don’t pick up right away,
and tell myself I’ll call him later on,
but then I always end up picking up.
So glad he thinks that he alone has pain,

that everything is perfect in my life,
and that I’m strong enough to bear it all—
the burden of his endless Sunday calls.