Got in the shower, no hot water.
The sky clouded over, I was in my office,
switched on the light. No light.
Decided I needed coffee,
but the machine did not work.
Went down to the garden in back –
all weeds. When had they sprung up?
A drive would cure this blues
for sure, I thought. But where
had I parked the car?
Now what else could go wrong?
It was then I realized that I was
writing this whatchamacallit, this
poem, and on the computer no less.
At least I was working
to some extent, and my fingers were,
and my electronic servant was.
And then a message arrived
from Rome and told me that my
lovely love was with me. So there!
– Leonard “Sunday On Strike” Blumfeld (© 2011)
Posted for One Single Impression and ‘weed.’