I should be making pesto,
because you will be home in an hour,
and you will want to get started.
I have been alone
in the house (for a change),
and all I have done
is wash the morning dishes,
sweep the floor,
and do laundry.
I took all three dogs for a walk
because . . .
(well . . . you know),
and I managed to shower and shave.
I changed the sheets on the bed.
Now, I’m writing a poem.
Poem in My Pocket
The poem in my pocket is a little gray mouse.
I found it early this morning, wandering
casually around the house.
It jumped into my pocket sans warning
and whispered in my ear,
Take me with you.
I did not know it was “poem-in-your-pocket”
or “take-your-mouse-to-work” day.
Of course, it may have just looked like a mouse.
It could have been a miniature
named Brutus, or Cesar Romero,
Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
But it does not heed my Shakespearean plea—
this mousy Chihuahua stays.