today i would write,
of the mundane...
the weak tepid tea
place before me.

today i would write,
of the unmatched...
the pile of sock,
singular, but legion,
that grows,
but never lessens.

today i would write,
of the humdrum...
the bills that tap, tap, tap,
incessently, at my brain's
back door.

today i would write,
of the wearisome...
the washing, ironing
and other weekly chores.

today i would write,
of  burdens...
but at present,
i have little, to none.

today i would wait,
(im)patiently...
for the morrow to come.
for then,
i would pen...
happy joyous tomes.

but today i write,
of the mundane....
for it seems,
some one, needs must,
give them fair airing...
for the world,
is not all,
loving, lust and