Here I am
Six years
A white dog
Joint pain
And a loving husband later
Sitting by the pool in white cotton
Again or still
Wanting simply to be
And hoping that writing poetry is accomplishing
Something
An excuse for the morning that is drifting away
However pleasurably…
But who asks the excuse?
Not my husband
Who shows signs of judging
Only himself harshly
Not Sunflower
Who loves me best when I am sitting
With her nearby
Not friends
Who wouldn’t see or know
Or even care how I spend my morning
As long as I remain me.
So I am my judge
Again or still
Sitting by the pool in white cotton
While a hazy someone speaks sharply
With disgust
Out from the kitchen
Saying that I haven’t done a thing this morning.
