A fog filled Sunday
Nothing but the weekend’s end
Work starts tomorrow

Sweet Sunday

Donuts and guitar licks
Make an enjoyable
Sunday morning.

It’s weird listening
To my son play guitar
And sing his own songs.

Especially when he sings
About the Waffle House.
Hmmm, there’s an idea…

So I called up my daughter
And guilted her
Into quitting her workout

And getting a waffle!

That’s what we did,
Sitting at the counter
And soaking in the onion smell.

The drive home
Was in an out of Amish traffic
Through the rolling hills of Pennsylvania.

Getting home was good,
Except for my dog doing his own roll
Through the slop of Pennsylvania.

Now I’m sitting here
With my wife and mother-in-law
Finishing off a great day.

Yeah, Right.

“Humph, who put this couch here?”
Said the guy after
Napping for two hours.

His last words had been,
“I’m just closing my eyes
For fifteen minutes.”

His wife knew better.
It was Sunday.

Adult World

How is it
That weekends pass so quickly?
How is it
That coats pile up so quickly?

I don’t know.

I’d like a college schedule
Like my son and nephew.
Their weeks now free,
Their long term responsibilities
Measured in hours.

I know…Dreaming…

How about I start
By enjoying this sun drenched Sunday?
How about I start
By putting these coats away?


So relaxed,
I can’t even write.
So relaxed,
I can’t even change the channel.

So relaxed…

These days
Happen so infrequently.
These days
Happen with favor.

These days…

The Last Sunday

Today is the last Sunday
One more day of
Unhindered lack-of-responsibility
One more day of
Slacking, lounging, and just enjoying
Everything changes in the morning
When the clock and calendar conspire
To regiment and dictate
The way of the day
But not this year
For I’m tired of a working man’s existence
Punching a clock,
Having some dinner, and
Going to sleep.
Work stays work
But thoese lazy days of the last two weeks
Have charged my soul
With new priorities
That don’t include the drama
Of laboring through nine to five
So it as such,
This is the last Sunday
I worry about work

All Sundays

Behind the door, my cat meows
Up the stairs, my family sleeps
To my side, my pit snores
While I sip coffee watching the sun rise

Later the cat will travel the stairs
My wife and I will live in the kids’ mayhem
The dog will still snore
And before we know it, the sun will set

So it is on a Sunday
I wouldn’t have it any other way
In fact, I would just as soon
Have tomorrow be Sunday too


A long walk
In the cold October wind
Some cheapish gas
Two bagels with
Hot leftover tomato bisque
A three quarters NFL timed nap
And now a daily post
Under the blanket
Before whatever snoozing
Comes next

Waking Up

Up at six
To walk the dog
Back a few minutes later
For the quiet
Of Sunday morning
The fans upstairs hum
The cat calls
The dog snores
The refrigerator whirs
And finally,
Number Three is up
Hitting each step on the wood floors
With a clumsy gait
Inspired by a groggy head
His voice raspy and high
As he laughs at the dog
And wrestles with morning induced boredom
Nearly setting in as quickly as he awoke

It’s over

The licking of the dog is so loud
The cats have food and water
There is plenty to do
How could you be bored…

Maybe there is still time
To attempt a nap
Before it gets really loud