The Trouble With Sunday

Saturday, the place was packed,

I had three good friends all slapping my back,

Somebody bought another round,

And I was everybody's favorite man in town.

I told a story,

made 'em laugh, Signed my name on a photograph,

Stayed until they stacked the chairs,

Then drove back home to nobody there.

I can make a room feel ten feet tall,

I can make a stranger feel like a friend,

But there's one thing I ain't figured out—

What to do when the evening ends.

That's the trouble with Sunday,

Nothing left to drown the sound,

No piano in the corner,

No familiar faces hanging around.

Just a cup beside the window,

And a clock that takes its time,

Oh, the trouble with Sunday

Is the company of my mind.

I bought the paper,

read page three, Found a little story about a man like me,

Had a wife and kids and a house out west,

Said he'd finally learned what mattered best.

I folded it and made some toast,

Called my brother down along the coast,

He said, "Jesse, you been doing all right?"

I said, "Sure am,

brother.

Had a real good night."

He said, "You always did know

what to say, When you didn't wanna say a thing."

I laughed and told him I'd call again,

Then sat there listening to the telephone ring.

Maybe

I could learn to sit here,

Without reaching for the door,

Maybe all the things I've run from

Aren't worth running from anymore.

I don't need another audience,

Don't need another song,

Maybe I just need to hear myself

When everybody else is gone.

That's the trouble

with Sunday,

And maybe that's its grace,

When the world quits asking who I am,

I can finally face my face.

There's a cup beside the window,

And the morning's taking time,

Oh, the trouble

with Sunday

Is this restless heart of mine.

Next Saturday they'll call my name,

And I'll love that just the same.

But maybe when the Sunday comes,

I won't be afraid of the quiet.