This is a sleepy poem.
Like a Sunday on the shore in Charleston,
or under the mossy oaks in Savannah.
Like a Monet displayed through your laptop screen.
Over your first cup of coffee, and before you go,
to meet with your trainer, for a session to start the day;
with the crusts still in your eyes.
Like the peanut butter mixed with honey,
which my family used to dip their biscuits in,
salty and sweet, early in the morning.
Or a white whiskered hound,
lounging lazily in front of a fireplace;
in a cabin in the Ozarks.
This is a sleepy poem. We should all go take a nap;
like I’m about to do.
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