Sunday

“Pure Gravy. And don't forget it."
-Raymond Carver (1938-1988)

Sunday

Sipping a fresh cup of dark roast,
16 ounces, paper cup,
no sugar, no cream,
listening to Bocelli
eating veggie burgers
and a potato
fried in light
virgin oil,
reading a great poem.

He didn't explode from
joy
or die
from the tightness
in his throat.

His dog gave him joy when
she jumped up and put her big, red feet
on his lap.
Dribbled water on him from her soft
mouth after she drank
from the bucket under the faucet
lop, lop, lop.

Earlier, I may have written a poem about
this old man,
sitting alone in his house, with
one light burning next to his used arm chair,
his eyes cloudy from
the beauty of the music.

Anyone looking in
would wonder if
if he felt alone or sad.
He was full of joy
and looked forward to the
time he could do it all
again
exactly as before.