It Doesn't Get Much Better

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It Doesn’t Get Much Better
By Beth LaBuff
Topic: Retirement

Sunday
The morning sun shone lustrous
On a charming Cape Cod house,
Seated in the dining room,
The Mr. and his spouse.

He sipped his steaming Eight O’Clock.
His mouth sanctioned a grin.
He pondered both, retirement
And his years-of-service pin.

As he perused the Tribune sighed,
“It doesn’t get much better.”
They, arm in arm, took off for church
With Bibles and her sweater.

Monday
He broke the fast before the sun,
Though no alarm was set.
His brain still time-zoned, nine to five,
Some things—hard to forget.

His day stretched out before him,
He had an inspiration,
He’d help the Mrs. ‘round the house
To show appreciation.

And in his fervor pointed out
Art, crooked on the wall,
A crystal glass with smudges, while
Dust bunnies roamed the hall.

He hovered while she vacuumed,
With cleanliness—obsessed.
He checked for dirt on window sills—
Employed the white-glove test.

Tuesday
The town library’s many books
Would help him find a hobby.
He carried home a cookbook on
How to Prepare Kohlrabi.

And Tennis for the Seniors Set,
Ten Steps to Play Guitar,
Gardening for Imbeciles,
and Maintenance for Your Car.

He knitted on her project
From two till three o’clock,
But read the pattern upside-down—
Knit sleeves into her sock!

Wednesday
A tennis outing with the boys.
She sighed in her relief.
A morning detached from her spouse,
Her respite would be brief.

The score was love to forty
When their game came to a halt.
He toppled o’er the base line,
A penalty—foot-fault.

The balance of the day he spent
Reclined upon his chair
While she applied an ice pack
To the bump ‘neath his gray hair.

Thursday
He urged his spouse to take a break
Then lit the barbecue.
Their pergola went up in flames
Thus went his grill debut.

The bad news, with the flare-up,
The steaks were grilled pitch-black.
The good news for the novice chef,
His eyebrows would grow back.

Friday
A junket with the boys out to
The lake, with pole and bait.
To hook some walleye, perch, or pike,
To grace his dinner plate.

He brought the pungent stringer home
And cast it in the sink.
To have a go at cleaning fish
‘Bout drove her to the brink.

Saturday
He changed the auto oil, but
It splattered o’er the lawn.
The next time that she drove the car
“Check engine” light flashed on.

Sunday
Their Cape Cod seemed to shrink that week.
It bound her like a fetter.
She’d scream out if she heard again,
“It doesn’t get much better.”

He sipped his morning Eight O’Clock,
Pondered past week’s enjoyment.
She snatched the Sunday Tribune ads
To contemplate employment.

***

© Beth LaBuff -- September 2009

inspiration from:

Proverbs 16:31

Gray hair is a crown of splendor...

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge