Wet Sunday Poem by Ivan Donn Carswell

a shaker of margaritas sipped
slow after a whimpered Sunday’s
soaking but no pain evident yet
he says to the swathe of damp
clothes now hanging – grins at
Saturday’s sanguine effigy

how bloody little you knew he
muses – like anyone can read
weather maps but you when
we could have philosophically
stayed in bed listening to the
rain instead of being in it

I suppose the cockatoos got a
laugh – but today even they
were less vociferous, which had
me thinking maybe they suffered
too and that nearly made up for
a damply dismal ending
© 8 February 2010, I. D. Carswell