It's not that ironing clothes is a chore—
domestic contingencies and all that
exposition folks end up Facebooking—
it's just the routineness of 8 AM
and the eee' eee' eee', the red-alarm squall,
my dreams on repeat, my brain-DVD
menu jammed, or the useless batteries.
We might have more beside the knives and forks.
My alarm clock has a color these days—
everything vital is color-coded—
but who really notices? If the dog
pisses next to the couch, my reasoning
will figure it out: grinning, nodding,
rebutting, loving all my excuses.
1 comment:
Wild, and yet so domestic.
It is interesting to reflect that when you first made my acquaintance we were walking nearly the same trail, you seemed but a half pace behind still feeling out the beauties of the Shakespearean twist on that "most exquisite form," while I was wrestling with mastering the Italian or "legitimate" standard and thereby the form.
This is a "modern" twist on it? Something in the "blank verse" category that Main would blush to add but might, for all his generosity still include by halves?
I love the perspective your offerings forever arrive in, the imagery enchanting, though something seeks to subtly trounce principle. Lovely with awesome imagery.
Beautiful reflection on life in this 21st (or am I behind now?) century, that deeper strain calling forth something like answering chords I fail to completely identify.
Thanks for sharing, I enjoyed it.
ttfn,
Jenny
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