On the last day before I went back to work

I lay on the sofa with my shirt off

and the morning sun coming in, playing a record,

burning incense, reading poetry.

All I had left was to clean the sheets,

cook chili for my kids,

and restock the beer.

The dog lay beside me as did my phone,

silent, too.

Categories: poetry, writing

Tags: humor, poem, poetry, William Pearse writer