Sundays

I want to be an old man that wears suspenders and smells like musk and bag balm and fresh tomatoes. An old man that grows tomatoes and plays harmonica on sunny days, makes stew on cold snowy days, and listens to other old men sing the blues with soul on rainy days. An old man with tattoos and words of wisdom and a past worth telling. I'd like to be an old man that carries a knife because I use it and a handkerchief  for the same reason. I'd know every bird and every bird call. An old man that traded hand rolled cigarettes for porn made from melted crayons. 

And on Sunday? Well...on Sundays people would come to my house and sing gospel.