Flipping through the Globe, we both eye the milk,
Perched just a few feet from us, it sits.
Sunday lax keeps us from the normal ilk,
Of everyday life, constantly the glitz
And glam. But Sunday, a morning of rest,
Keeps us sane. Both glued persistently for
Neither one will lose this sitting contest
To prove who is the laziest once more.
The milk spoils, longing to be matched with
The cereal box closest to me like
Bonny and Clyde, meant to be no myth.
If only we would quit being so alike,
Alas, it’s I, giving into your charm.
Mother, winking, never meant to cause harm.
Things Hannah Writes 