Puddles

lying on concrete

waiting for nothing

motionless

no cars in sight

not a ripple

not a thought

they lie in peace

**********************************

So, it was a rainy, grey day, and I was driving Honey to chemo.

He was rather off in his own mind – and I, silly me, asked where he was.

His response: “Composing”

What I should have said: “Oh, okay”

What I did say, “Hmmm, what are you composing this time, Honey?”

My husband, the tortured poet.

Great poem, but so morose, bleak, grey.

I suppose it would be totally ludicrous to expect sunshine and roses,

but partial shade and dandelions would make me happy.

Love you (and Mr. Sunshine, here)

* by the way, he got a WICKED tongue lashing for that one.

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