Sundays

I was reading a story by Don DeLillo, and the characters were talking about how Sundays are depressing, their memories of Sundays on Earth, at least.
And it reminded me of the endless string of Sundays of my youth:
such a stale, forced-pleasantness to the day--
too quiet, too rigidly ordered..
Not now. 
Now the only depressing thing about Sundays is how roaringly fast they go by,
thrusting us forward into another work week, 
which turns into Thursdaysofast 
and that's my Friday, so it's alright again...