Poem For Sunday

Sunday waits for me
at the end of the week.
Sunday, a get-up-late day,
a day to smirk at Monday.
Sunday, a jack-the-lad day
who enjoys a quiet chuckle.
Sunday, the older brother
of curry-and-lager Friday,
who looks sternly back at his excesses,
his late nights out, his foolishness.

Sunday, I rise with the intention
of cramming in everything that I've left
till the end of the week
but always end up lazing around,
knowing in the back of my mind
that it will soon be miserable Monday.
Sunday, see you soon!
I'm counting the days.

Evey Richardson (aged 13)