the sacred last moment of homely peace,
the last sip of the bottle of weekend.
So wake up and smell the bacon
Open your eyes to the seeping sunbeams streaming and
the dogs ever a-yapping at some
probably nonexistent boogeyman out back
So follow your nostrils to the
scrumptious Southern masterpiece
of this sabbath day
Biscuits and jam and
ink on my fingers
Coffee-sipping sleepy-eyed undead of the
dawn-
The dawn of 10 o'clock
Peruse the hallowed
(New York Times)
and don't touch the Book Review, Mom wants it
I want the magazine I'm done with this but
no no no I haven't read that yet This is
the done pile
And maybe we'll be done enlightening ourselves at 11
And maybe it will be 12
And maybe we won't get dressed for a while
And maybe there will be a to-do list
And maybe we'll watch some football
And maybe we will get out of the house
once or twice
But if we don't, that's just
Alright.
Because it will be 7 more days until
the next hot breakfast
And 7 more days until
the next fat newspaper
7 whole, humdrum days
Until the next unfettered phase in our pajamas to simply
be.
And if every other dysfunctional family functions in such a fashion,
It's no wonder we all hate Monday...
What's your Monday face?
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