Is this what the day is
Listening to the rattle of the radio
While the cold wind
Finds the crevices under the sill
The dishes collude in the sink
Till you feel like a slut
For not giving them a purge
In soap filled suds
The mundane is where
The holy folks reign
It’s not the one that longs
To escape the drudge
Of the same oul thing
But dreams of other things
Beyond the bane of your existence
Some memorable something
That the folks can marvel at
That you were there
And wasn’t that simply insane
You ran a race
At a helluva pace
Yet here you are
In the same old ,same old place
There’s no grace in it
And you should contain it
Aren’t you lucky to be alive
In the day that’s in it.
© Mary Cecil
Share
Print
Save
Follow
