Spattering against the night-darkened skylight
The rain plays a tune, rising and falling
The woodwinds sing hushed among the firs
The spoiled hound sprawled at my feet snores softly.
I don't know where all of this is going;
The rattling keys trailing words from there beneath my fingers,
Staccato counterpoint to the raindrops, Daisy's breathing
And the low rumble of the refrigerator making ice.
I used to think that anything this pleasant
Must be a total waste of time and so, in a kind of spite
I may build a fire in a bit to make it nicer and to take away
The chill that hangs upon the quiet house at 2 AM.
And tomorrow when the sun comes up and spills
Across the floor, pouring through the skylights down in pools
That warm the carpet. I'll be walking barefoot on them,
Commuting to the rolltop in the corner, my office by the bookcase.
There should be some reward for getting old; some compensation,
And what better than skylights playing music in the night
And pouring puddles of light upon the floor each morning.
A warm nap spot for the dog & place to warm the old man's feet.
© 2014 by Tom King