Saucepan of eggs,
improv with eggnog,
same socks for the
third day running,
still clean because
I daydream in bare feet;
socks aren't needed
to create bad poetry.
Kids don't have a Clue
and refuse to play the game,
a football sticks in
my grey matter as if
it were rasberry preserves,
and the Sunday paper
untouched on
the kitchen table
with the Sports section,
likes to be
on top, slightly askew,
reminds me of myself.
