La Vida Loca

Every Sunday evening yearns to be Saturday instead. Some Sundays are lucky. They chance upon bored souls who would rather be elsewhere. Anywhere but where they are. The dimming summer sun lazes into the night, pouring wine into the glasses. There is the mundane talk and there is a glimmer of hope. A silly game of cards and the lunatic is on the grass. The moon rises and the opera hits the high note. Appetites to rejoice and live are whetted. Monday lingers on the other side, not wanting to happen. Can magic moments last forever? Sleep takes over the night and a lucky Sunday had lived its moment.