The Sunday Price

Sunday!  Sunday!
Every day is Sunday.
I walk into an overgrown
furniture warehouse showroom
with the Sunday paper in hand.
Pointing to an ad, I say, “I want the Sunday price.”
The red-vested salesman looks me
     right between the eyes
before he raises an arizona eyebrow
and responds, “But it’s Tuesday.”
I wad the worthless paper in my hands
and stomp on it.
“It ain’t Tuesday!” I say,
as I reach for
     the slingshot in my backpocket
and place a piece of silver in its strap.
The salesman takes cover
behind this big fluffy beige number
I was looking at, nay,
     ready to buy—
but only at the Sunday price.

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