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.
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