Sunday evening is worse than Monday morning,
The fear of death, says Sir Francis, is worse than death.
A sickly feeling rises and churns in my stomach,
even now, after I’ve lived through such seven hundred
and seventy non-workingSundays. It’s the same every time.
It starts rising from Saturday. In the morning
a panic reminder rings, a tightening in intestines.
Saturday evening warns me that the next
will be the last before death comes again.