Early Sunday morningstame even the most monstrous of Pittsburgh’s city streets,
after Saturday night’s revelryfinally stumbles exhausted into sleep’s penance.
And too early the preacher’s sermon stretches and yawns,gives thanks for the few more minutes of sleep.
I bicycle alone on these early, deserted Sunday mornings,circling the same city streets I’ve known most of my life.
I finish my ride at the same coffee shop,sit at the same outdoor table
in the shadows of the spires of the Cathedral of Hope,its bells echo off tall city buildings, reprimanding my hollow beliefs.
Each Sunday I drink a cup of solitary city streets,while the faithful flock into church,
dressed in their Sunday best,and shiny, wingtip shoes I don’t ever remember owning.
Francesco Pasqualino is a full-time restaurateur and part-time writer who lives in Fox Chapel.