Sunday
Sunday afternoon.
Sun shining. Cloudless blue sky.
Just me, our dogs, and our dogs are surprisingly quiet.
Perfect. No wife. She has her own priorities.
Time at home alone is like discovering Bigfoot feces
And that Bigfoot shits turds of gold.
No lawn mowers, no leaf blowers, and
No neighbors or their Goddamn squawking kindred.
No other signs of life,
Just birds chirping and squirrels chasing squirrels.
Quiet with a capital Keep-it-that-way.
I’m at one with Nature.
Pornburst on the phone and enough bourbon
To see me through till dinner.
I did say no wife right?
Yeah, I did.
Just have to make sure
She doesn’t read this poem.
