Laziness

The smell of Texaswood Cedar
and the sound of Norah Jones
give cause to my pen.
Poor Michael is sprawled out on the couch
with some sort of influenza, and
My house looks like a land-locked shipwreck.
The dishes are taking a bath, but
The laundry hangs around like bad conservation.
Outside the window, it’s a snowy March.
Winter still owns the bar
and today the drinks are on the house.
My writing ‘s already had a few too many
but still calls for another dark stout.
Michael pulls my attention
In the opposite direction
And we share some time together on the unmade bunks
Clanks from the buckles on my overalls
Churn quietly in the dryer
And we hold nothing as pressing
As together we doze.