Couch potator

Published 8:23 am Wednesday, February 24, 2010

I’m not sure what you think of me,

You seldom speak a word,”

(as he glanced through the glass,

distracted by a bird).

“Abiding in my home,

It seems a just appeal,

When was the last time

You helped to make a meal?

Stretched at length upon that couch,

Unaware of strife,

As if to mock the hectic pace

By which I lead my life.

Who do you think you are?”

She mumbled walking by,

As he stretched, shifted hips

And dreamed a lullaby.

Clanging dishes in the sink

She hoped to make him wake,

It only served to serenade

His cozy, comfy state.

“Why do I put up with him?”

She muttered in frustration,

Clenching teeth, stomping feet,

In utter agitation.

Later on, all work done,

She settled in her chair,

Leaning back, breathing deep,

She posed a vacant stare.

Slowly he got off the couch,

Ambled her direction,

Cocky walk, silent talk,

He gauged her cool reception.

Pensively, he took a leap,

Landing in her lap;

Nestled on her cotton skirt

To plan another nap.

Glancing down upon such one,

She thought, “Imagine that!”

Tension melting like the snow,

She smiled and rubbed her cat.