it's sunday

with a cup
of coffee in
hand, you feel
your feet sink
into the wet snow,
you are sick
of snow, january
feels like a
hundred days long.
shoeless you
have strayed off
the porch to
get the newspaper
full of news
you don't care
about anymore.
when isn't there
a war? the weather
report is all
the news you need
these days.
you'll be done
with the it in
ten minutes, no
less, no more,
and your socks
now soggy
are flung down
the basement stairs
in the direction
of other clothes
to be washed.
to be dried. you'll
get to it. you
stare at your pink
feet, wet and
cold. you find
dry socks.
it's sunday.