Its a Sunday morning when the world works to a different pattern
housework claws in and takes control
of the daily tasks
last weeks work looks at me with doleful eyes
and a feather duster tickles my fancy.

Soon the clutter will unclutter itself
the vacuum cleaner will **** out the symphony
of dust and dirt and unhidden memories
and my desk will be tidied up and paper
towels will do their job.I spend time
re-arranging ******* in a more distinct pattern
" Ah, so there's that telephone number I scribbled last week!"

I return after an hours homework
and settle at my desk.
" Now where did I leave that phone number again?"

I survey the scene on AP
and skim through the comments
"God, he did not like my last poem,
She said :Keep it real
He said: What does this mean?"

and and and
The Green Eyes are forever smiling

Its a worthwhile Sunday

I better take up Chapter 36 of my book
but open Mathematical Universe instead.

Those eyes are haunting!
Its a beautiful Sunday.