here in the little wee hours
on the night so cold
my toes ache
i sit pondering
life and such
by the light
of fire and tablet
wrapped in blanket
threaded with memories
i think nonsense and ingenuity
and watch cinders fly
on the hearth the dog and cat slumber
wrapped around each other pretzel-like
defying with casual snores,
both physics and laws of natural enmity.
there is an ease to their bromance
that both confounds and humours me
behind me spreading on the couch
like slow(very slow) moving lava is
the surf god, encased in flannel and ugg
he gargles breathe like an old Harley
soon I will escort him to bed and leave
him to the embrace of his new lover
Madame Cpap...and they can share
a night of slumber in a wind tunnel
then in the morning , he is mine once more
the golden boy sleeps elsewhere tonight
having come into the season of sleepovers
he resides in a tent, in a bedroom
half a suburb away ,oblivious to
the sound of stretching apron strings
he too shall return to me tomorrow
older and with new cultural references
to share with his increasingly
dim witted parents
for now, in the wee hours
i stare at the cinders
and see the old man as younger
and the boy as babe
as my toes ache
and my eyes leak
just a tad....
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 11:51 AM UTC
here in the little wee hours
on the night so cold
my toes ache
i sit pondering
life and such
by the light
of fire and tablet
wrapped in blanket
threaded with memories
i think nonsense and ingenuity
and watch cinders fly
on the hearth the dog and cat slumber
wrapped around each other pretzel-like
defying with casual snores,
both physics and laws of natural enmity.
there is an ease to their bromance
that both confounds and humours me
behind me spreading on the couch
like slow(very slow) moving lava is
the surf god, encased in flannel and ugg
he gargles breathe like an old Harley
soon I will escort him to bed and leave
him to the embrace of his new lover
Madame Cpap...and they can share
a night of slumber in a wind tunnel
then in the morning , he is mine once more
the golden boy sleeps elsewhere tonight
having come into the season of sleepovers
he resides in a tent, in a bedroom
half a suburb away ,oblivious to
the sound of stretching apron strings
he too shall return to me tomorrow
older and with new cultural references
to share with his increasingly
dim witted parents
for now, in the wee hours
i stare at the cinders
and see the old man as younger
and the boy as babe
as my toes ache
and my eyes leak
just a tad....
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