Day 11

Challenge: Include 3 cliches, a confession, and a cat.

Monday Blues

I wake up thick as a brick, 
mouth sour, heart pounding 
from another dream (ancient
disaster, moral panic, alternate 

unreality). I am old, 
Father William, and my brain 
is made of sealing wax. 
Forget the cabbages and kings, 

all I need is a lazyboy, 
a nice fat cat for my 
squashy lap, 
my yarn stash, 

streaming TV, and 
a reasonable pension. 
I’ll confess: 
I’m tired of trying to be 

smart. Mornings like this, 
I ache to take a permanent 
vacation — not a dirt nap, 
if you know what I mean, 

but a little 
intellectual oblivion, 
a wee disconnection 
from sense —

to fall into the herd of happy
grazing test pattern 
brain waves, wandering in
walking comas, 

to live at last my
authentic American-style 
good life.