Monday

Wake up
cuss and gimp my way
to the bathroom
aging joints
stiff
pissy
reluctant,
floss brush shower shave
then the dog’s turn
to evacuate the waste
from the previous day,
eggs and fruit
my preamble
for groveling
at the feet
of the muse,
something of use
to slip into a poem
but there’s
nothing,
nothing
but the rain
and four
surveyor sticks
with pretty pink flags
in the neighbor’s yard
marking the boundaries
where their marriage died
and there’s no poetry in that
and still the steady
pat
pat
pat
of the rain,
all that remains
worth noting