The grass grew virtually overnight; the Buttercups
so tall they spilled their beauty on the lawn
I have fallen behind in my everyday chores and duties;
the mower quit working and is demanding a raise.
I couldn’t provide it with one; as I too have not been paid.
What the hell, I’m just sitting here on a Sunday,
trying to put off today what I can get done on Monday.
Reclining in my favorite deck chair, sunning my cancers;
admiring God’s work in the world. Such beautiful plush clouds;
the fruit trees in blossom and the birds singing to their young,
while mankind’s contributions crumble all about me
and the mower holds the gas can in utter contempt.
2008 © T Sheridan
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.