Sunday Morning
By Mark Butler
In this old building life is liquid.
It seeps through creaking floors—
a weeping marriage, a nagging, wet
cough, the kindness of soup.
We live in our private rooms, the doors
bolted, peering through smudged
windows while joy and sorrow course through
the common walls, flooding the stairwell.
I really like this poem – that life is liquid, seeping in around us as we peer through smudged windows, etc. so deeply felt and well expressed. Very moving – a beautiful poem.
Thank you, Frank.
Mark, I love this poem, the sense, the sound, the way it makes me feel. Thank you.
Thanks Jean. Appreciate it!
A nice reflection.
Thank you, Jeanette.