Lazy dogged days,
sleeping past the
sun's brutal rays
and my son's insistent
yelling into his computer headset.
"Hey, Parker. Hey, Parker,
can you hear me?"
I can hear him,
even under his
younger brother's
beehive droning whine
"What can I do?"
Don't tempt me kid,
I have a laundry list
of nagging chores like
that pile of pool-soggy
boxer briefs you
hung up on the bathroom floor.
Toast for breakfast, burnt
like my bare thighs
on my leather cookie sheet
car seat.
When we run out of bread
and patience.
Out of rhythm, still slightly foggy
and Pavlov-ed to a school bell
I swim in sleep past eight
groggy for being up late
as I revert to a night owl
chasing a recalcitrant muse or
catching 40 blinks of a Netflix show.
The days lie long
across the hot cement
trip me up in their
endless length.
Begging to be filled
with shoes and beach bags,
tents and forts,
and hot, wilted lines
waiting for a thrill ride
or just to be inside
air-conditioning for
a cold minute.
Summer's here.
A time to cheer
when the school calendar
grows near
and life goes back
to scheduled chaos again.
.
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