Driving to work on a Sunday,
Went to work yesterday, but didn’t get much done,
Except looking for leads for new work.
It’s pouring rain outside my big comfortable conversion van,
Traffic is stop and go, and I was thinking of a recent girlfriend.
I watch people’s faces when I can,
Puffing my pipe filled with a tobacco that tastes like Texas Twister but
It’s some flavor that I got when I was working in Oman,
Still fresh in the zip-lock bag, or at least fresh enough.
I let thick clouds of smoke drift out in front of me,
At my foggy front wind shield, then crack the window to watch it rush out into the rain.
Traffic jams don’t smell so bad in the rain.
I roll the window down more because it’s been awhile since rain hit my hands.
Saint Mark by a composer that I missed was the soundtrack down 75.
Schubert played when I missed the exit to 635, but it was completely stopped anyways.
So we went down a side road, in the rain smoking my pipe,
Going to work on a Sunday.
I don’t know anyone like me, I really don’t.
Guess I should do some work now, I have expectations to meet.
Michael F. Lewis