Morning clouds and a Bloody Mary—
Why the hell rush things?
Sunday Morning it’s not,
And no cockatoo’s in sight;
But some days feel right
Lived at a deliberate pace
Rather than a breakneck race.
Time enough for all that later,
All that flurry and frantic hurry.
For now we’ll sit by the pool
And watch the lacy patterns
The warm wind makes
On the blue, cool water.
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