Sunday Dinner

There is no Sunday dinner.
Once there was.
Crisp linen was spread on the wood table
Mother would cook for anyone
coming through that old front door.
While soup simmered, grandmother complained.

A bag of dirty laundry brought by a young married
would wind up in the washing machine.
Clean laundry flapped on the line.

There is no one to drop in on now.
Strangers live in that house.
Friends are different.
We can run for comfort,
but there is no Sunday dinner.
Once there was.

Babies and Old Dogs

Babies and old dogs
How I envy them.
They have what I crave.
Deep sleep.
I wish for that.
A sleep of freedom.

One quiet night I wish to fall into the depths of slumber
like babies and old dogs.
I could clear my mind and drift into a peaceful haven of sleep.
Babies and old dogs are pampered.
A warm spot is always ready for their slumber.
How I wish I could escape from life's crush for just one night
of deep sleep.
Babies and old dogs.
How I envy them.

^

Biography

I live and work in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and have
published poems and short stories in literary magazines
and some ezines. I have finished my sixth screenplay,
but have yet to find any interest. I keep trying. My
degree is in social work, but now work in a technology
department of a worldwide management consultant.
I'm a wife and mother of a terrific 10 year girl.