Sunday and I sit.
Alone, save the purring company of cats.
Today is to wait, while the sun beckons.
To wait to talk.
To wait to sell.
To wait until there
appears
a point
deemed sufficient to get me to leave
the warm grey comfort of the couch.
To wait until the spirit moves me
to wax poetic about the every day
task or tedium
that in this catastrophe of housekeeping
is rarely undertook.

She sleeps with paws covering her eyes.
The day outside too bright
to be
considered.  And she is right.
When it is so close and us so far.
When patience strains and starts to mar
our enjoyment of the nothing that abounds.

I pull her close
and regal she stretches.
Dubbing me worthy to bear
the weight of her feline form.

When all is accomplished
and the waning day
still fills
the glass half-way,
freedom is finally in my grasp.

But nothing begets nothing.
And boredom is a rot.

In the end, I remain mired in
warm grey comfort,
watching possibility fall to
implacable ennui
from my place on the couch.