Poor Duke doesn’t understand Mondays,
the blah, and the mirr, and the grunt-days.
He doesn’t understand the scowl on my face,
the not wanting to play, or the tone of my voice.
He wiggles and twists, and tries without fail;
he seems almost determined to get me to smile,
but the hour or so that I first return home,
I insist on behaving like one best alone.
Somehow it happens, the subtlest switch.
I push close my eyebrows, but feel my mouth twitch,
and somehow I chuckle, just a little more often,
and the blah and the mirr of my Monday are softened.
© L. Rose (2/20/17)