A poem that has two fathers in it, with a photo of the actual building.

When Sunday is not a day of rest

Two narrow wooden benches form the arena.
Both gladiators enter through the main left door.
The one with the brown perm has an entourage:
three boys (one with red hair), a girl with braces,
and the eldest son with glasses, the creepy smile
inherited from his father, a businessman with butter
in his mouth who happens to be our uncle.
As church elder, he’ll collect in the interval,
holds out a long wooden pole with black velvet bag.
Both gladiators buy at Stoutebeek,
the town’s upmarket department store.

Our gladiator has better legs, better posture,
a striking hat, which makes up for just three of us.
She is a semi-professional singer.
Our gladiator chose to marry the controller
of church proceedings – the organist.
Outside, afterwards, the light ammunition
of smiles, air kisses and compliments.

Writing prompt

‘Sundays could feel very threadbare’ (Claire Keegan, Small things like these).

What is Sunday for you? A day you look forward to; a day you wish would pass quickly?

Is there another day that has special meaning to you – positive or negative?