Sunday
The day slips away
in headaches and naps.
David Bowie hated wasted days.
But what is a wasted day?
One without accomplishment?
Or one not worth remembering?
My precious dog lays at my feet
as I write.
I reach down to rub her belly.
This is a day without doing
but not without beauty.
I don’t count it a loss.
2 thoughts on "Sunday"
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I appreciate the simple language of this poem. It really enhances the beauty of the small moment
Yes, its not a loss.