Sunday, May 9, 2021

It Must Be My Day


I don't claim to be a poet, but after editing numerous poetry books lately, I felt inspired to give it a try. Here's what I came up with yesterday when, in the words of newspaper columnist, Jack Neworth, "My birthday candles almost started a forest fire."

It Must Be My Day

Slept late, awakened to coffee made and breakfast in bed.

He hates coffee, can’t even stand the smell.

It must be my day.

A dozen roses, a subscription to Hulu

so I can watch season four of “Handmaid’s Tale.“

It must be my day.

Text messages from kids, kids-in-law, and grandkids;

Facebook greetings from friends near and far.

It must be my day.

Cards, emails, phone calls,

Car trip to a state park; he drove, I typed. 

It must be my day.

Hugs, whiffle ball with grands, picnic lunch;

Walking, talking, more hugs.

Yes, May 8 is my day,


But so is tomorrow since I’m a mom.

I wonder...will I get breakfast in bed again?

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