“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.