What a Day

Sipping a fresh cup of dark roast, plain, no sugar, no cream, listening to Mozart eating veggie burgers and a potato fried in light, virgin oil, reading a great poem. No wonder he didn't explode from joy or die from the tightness in his throat. His dog gave him joy when she jumped up and put her big, red feet on his lap. Dribbled water on him from her, soft mouth after she drank lop, lop, lop from the bucket under the faucet. Earlier, I may have written a poem about this old man, sitting alone in his house, with one light burning next to his torn, canvas chair, his eyes cloudy and moist from the beauty of the music. Earlier, I would have looked in on this old man and wondered what his thoughts were, and if he felt alone or sad. Little did I know he was full of joy and looked forward to the time he could do it all again, and again, exactly as before.