Tomorrow might be Sunday, and
sunless; I might hear the bells and
say that it was just an illusion; I might
go down to the street and not find the man
who sells newspapers; I might go as far as
the square and not see the women
moving in a group towards church, where
mass is about to begin.

Tomorrow might not be Sunday,
and the streets empty as though
there were nothing to do; it might not
be Sunday, and all the stores
closed; it might not
be Sunday and someone asking
what does one do when it is
not Sunday.

Tomorrow might be any day,
and I not knowing what day it is; I might
look at my watch and discover that
its hands have stopped; I might
here someone speaking, and have no idea where
the voice that comes from their mouth comes from,
as though I were all alone.

And then, I might open the door and
see that Sunday wants to come in; and
pull it into my house, so that
the outside was left Sundayless; and
go out into the street on any day
whatsoever, asking passersby
if they saw which way Sunday went.