Song Of A Suburban Resident Poem by Anton K

The weekend wakes without a yawn
as someone, somewhere, mows a lawn.
The spaniel in the yard next door
has barked at nothing since the dawn.

The uncomplaining neighbors snore
or wake and try to then ignore
the canine chorus on repeat.
Some check the clock, it's 5: 04.

The floor is cold upon their feet,
they squint and grumble as they greet
The bright and buzzing bathroom light.
The morning air outside is sweet.

The dishes are not done, all right,
and what'll we have for dinner tonight?
There's nothing in the fridge at all,
it stares at me in frigid spite.

It's afternoon, I get a call
about some work I try to stall.
I hear a bouncing sort of sound -
a boy has over-kicked a ball.

I look about and when it's found
I pick the thing up off the ground
and throw it back and feel a pain -
its petty sting is now profound.

I see within all things a chain
to make my every day mundane,
And so I delve into a dream
and dream of walking in the rain.

Of fishing in a moonlit stream,
of snow that falls as thick as cream,
of hiking in the north of Spain,
of things that are not what they seem.