Saturday Morning of Labor Day Weekend

“Poetry is not a means to an end, but a continuing engagement with being alive.” — Poet Kim Addonizio

After taking out the dog,
after feeding the dog,
after taking his pills,
after cleaning his eyeglasses,
after flossing and brushing,
after cleaning the dishes,
after making the coffee,
he sat and glanced at the clock.
In five minutes he would
turn on the radio and listen
to Saturday morning jazz.
Then he sat in the silence,
breathed deeply
and gave thanks.
Soon, he would read a few
meditations and poems.
A car went by,
a runner went by,
the sun reflected off the dune grass.
Through the closed window
he heard a bird.
He thought about the
holiday weekend in his resort
area — today, Sunday, Monday.
He, his wife and the
Chocolate Lab would be
staying pretty close to
base camp and not attempt a summit
of the “southeast ridge of Annapurna III,
one of the great unclaimed prizes
left in the Himalayas.”
Tuesday, he and his wife might go
for a bike ride to a really nice,
up and coming micro-brewery,
“Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise.”

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