Sunday Poem

Heaven might just be in a
cup of coffee and a piece of toast.
Were there only buttons to push
on a tree to be lifted into the sky
like a big fat adult baby. That would be fun.
All that miserable cold rain has come to a stop,
now it is calm and clear. Some Bach
is playing on the radio in the other room.
One cannot possibly think of making
love while listening to Bach.
I am all about thinking the things
I think and letting them go. Let
those sick little monkeys go!
Raise your voice in ecstatic song
like a total jackass that upsets
the neighbors with early songs.
You can apologize later.