Sunday Morning, At A Funeral Poem by Lora Cooley

Barely half asleep
Dreaming I was turning
Morning broke
Dragged me out of bed
Slightly less asleep
Warming all the cold parts of my head
I wonder what it's like to be anywhere but here
If I leave and don't return with the river running clear
Morning fell back to sleep
I look out of place
Nervous feet
Headed for church doors
Dressed in shades of black
Sunday Morning soft in Sunday's best
Never coming back here
I wonder what it's like to be anywhere but here
Rows of crowded pews
Looking for a seat
Waiting for a call
But didn't hear my phone ring
Had to sit and watch you bawl
Left the ringer off
Missed it when you called
But watch
I wonder what it's like to be where you are
If you were still here
Morning staring at a clock
Morning wished to be stirred from the dream
Morning thinking of a call I should make
But never did
I never did