He’s my friend and he says “Sundays
kill more men than bombs.”
I’d like to ask him why, understand
what he means, but his face
is glued to the game, and he’s ripe. Now
the snow blows outside, and I’ll sit until he promises

to fill me in. But I’ve seen how promises
tend to end up on the floor, like a boy’s Sunday
best, piled next to little anxious friends, who now
toil and tinker with bombs
that will soon explode in the boy’s face
(never too soon), helping him understand

what’s really important. But his mother mis-understands
His Word — truncated promises
riddled with love, shoved in his face.
And they only seem to come on Sunday.
They are dark quilts that smother the bombs’
intentions… I look again to my friend who is now

nothing but a piece of furniture, immovable. Now
and then he pretends to breathe, but he doesn’t understand
it’s too late for him. It was too late when these bombs,
clad in vertical stripes, flipped the coin. Promise
me someday you’ll think. Nothing. Every Sunday
the masses glide across a pebbled surface

toward the tiny darkness. They face
“the flash of genius,” now
in the corner, across the room, smearing its Sunday
sermon on figurines that do not understand
the everlasting that they’ve been promised,
its vagueness, its absurdity. Long bombs

and voice-overs have proven my point, cherry bombs
under cans, shit-eatin’ grins smeared on apathetic faces.
For you, my friend, I promise
to bury you here and now.
I hope you understand.
I wish it didn’t have to happen on Sunday.

And the look on his face is a desperate promise,
useless. But now I finally understand
why Sundays kill more men than bombs.