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Sunday Morning
Out of the darkness, the smell,
French toast, and the sound of sausage,
Sizzling bacon, and the aroma of buttermilk bisquits,
Muffled clamor of pots and pans, and running water,
Drawers on the bureau, closing,
One after one, she can't find the right socks,
I bury my head under the pillow,
The dog jumps on my bed,
And after many tries at waking me up,
I feel the weight and warmth of her on my feet,
I don't think I want to eat,
I want to sleep.
© 2013
