The tepid rumpus
claims us eventually,
each and every one.

The car fights traffic.
The train lumbers on old tracks.
Who will win the race?

At twenty-seven,
the laziness of sweatpants
should be obvious.

Brazen buried roots
sap my strength, mock my shovel,
disrupt my garden.

Three white boys rapping
bratty, immature anthems.
It never gets old.

Obedient cats
should be loved, wuzzled, and feared
in equal measure.

Stuffing and sorting
hundreds of white envelopes
takes an afternoon.

Women in blue shirts
sync gadgets for the eager
downtown consumers.

Sunday afternoon
patrons gather at the bar
for beer, not nonsense.

Savory meat pies
warm the spirit, and taste buds,
thanks to slow-cooked beef.