I want to console you on this rainy day, dear reader,
when your dog wants to take a walk and you don’t.
I want to tell you I’m sorry your toast burned
and you dropped that raw egg on your newly waxed floor.

Things are bound to get better—unless you get a late notice
from your credit card company because you forgot
to pay the bill and the added interest is enough
to purchase a shiny new Yamaha motorcycle;
or the boy next door comes begging
for a cookie, steps under your arm as you hold the door
slightly ajar and tracks mud through the living room.
Don’t worry. You can rent a steam cleaner
or hire a company to give your carpet royal treatment.
Just don’t put it on your credit card and forget to pay again.

But as I said, the day is bound to go better—
unless your brother-in-law arrives with his wife
and six children, surprised you never received his letter
saying they decided to vacation all week at your home,
and you’re out of butter, have no fresh meat on hand,
that egg you dropped was your last one,
and it’s time for lunch and the children are whining.
But no matter, you can take them to Chili’s
or Country Buffet and put it on your credit card.

So, dear reader, take the dog for a soggy walk
despite the pounding rain and he’ll eat the burnt toast,
lick the broken egg from the floor—and you can get credit
from your in-laws for having a clean kitchen.

This poem first appeared in the Rockford Review (Summer/Fall, 2009).
© Wilda Morris
Used with the author’s permission.