That life will run this unrelenting pace
until the final syllable of time
does not, by any trial or judgment, place
an urgency on this, my lazy rhyme.
In motion, slow and slower, I will scribe
with frequent breaks to fill a cup with brew.
I change my cup when tea I would imbibe;
it’s nearly Sunday night and I’m not through.
Molasses, that of winter, oooh’s and aahh’s;
the tortoise’s have stopped to wait in vain.
I write a letter, comma… now a pause…
as hope of verse completion starts to…. “Wayne!!
Your honey do’s aren’t done! It’s Sunday night!!”
“I’ll do them when I get this couplet right.”
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