“What’s the Ordre of the Day?”

“What’s the Ordre of the Day?”

What’s the ordre of the day? The laundry?

A trip downstairs to gather bagels in the morning’s light,

Across the street for vegetables from lands where armies clash by night?

The pharmacy awaits―its monthly maw is open―yawning,

Leaving me with hymns of thanksgiving for insurance

And of course the curse á tous les professeurs du côté français

Who voted out the dental plan, which means we all must pay.

Oh, well, I can’t complain these days. There is the firm assurance

That retirement is good until I croak, and croaking’s not that far away.

I might have done the deed this year, but something in me holds

That I’ve at least another year in me; silver this year, next year, gold.

There is in living more than simply doing laundry in the list of things today.

So what’s the sweat, and what’s another crate of eggs and milk and bread?

Another spring, another year, and some few miles to go before I’m dead.

3 responses to ““What’s the Ordre of the Day?”

  1. Can a poem be sprightly and ominous at the same time?

    • I suspect that since both of us have been walking this earth approximately the same number of years, your question must be rhetorical; certainly, so far as I have noticed, this world and everything in it always carries the odd weight of being “sprightly” and “ominous” at the same time. We are, after all, spirits, and at the same time, the stage on which we perform whatever it is that we do in the narration is ever and always slightly “ominous.” If for no other reason than this, living is, generally speaking, liable to confuse the best of us and utterly inundate the worse of us.

  2. And, a hearty Amen to that…

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