Image by Manu Pombrol
Sunday Morning Ajar
A swab about the kitchen quick
then silence re-descends so thick
it brings translucence to the calm
and calls for yet another balm.
Ah, he thinks, stripping down to luster,
there’s nothing else that cuts the mustard
like a Sunday morning soak.
Sinks, then feels the bath invoke
the thinker in him, so holds quite high
a slim slim volume of poe-try.
Till suddenly, a blistered curse,
that’s quite the opposite of terse,
sounds loudly from a nearby room
above the beating and the boom
of door of fridge and counter clutter-
“gosh darn it,” comes a distinct mutter–
“and now where has my Dijon gone?”
He, dripping, reaches for his thong–
and hurries hurries all to dry,
while fumbling for an alibi–
though it probably won’t do the trick
even if his brain works quick
for it seems he left the door ajar
while dipping in her favorite jar.
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Posting the above for Tess Kincaid’s The Mag 115. Tess gives a photograph prompt each week. (It’s a lot of fun – check it out.) I usually try to do my own version of the photo, but I am tired enough from National Poetry Month to just stick with the plain old wonderful image by Manu Pombrol.
ManicDDaily 
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