Down Time

The mask waddles around leaving its paw prints,

As it scopes the garbage cans and porch for food.

It commits peccadilloes all the time when it strikes,

Tearing up bags and straying trash; making a mess.

My propinquity shows in my subtle observations,

Of the sun’s rays peaking down through the clouds.

The kits appearing every summer running around

Easily seen through and under the natty bushes.

Sophomoric children chuck rocks at little critters

The clouds showcase their perfection in the sky.

I dream of faraway landscapes containing scenes,

Ones very matured, not sloppy and picturesque.  

I watch, I dream, I imagine, and fantasize all of this,

During personal vacations I call my mental downtime.

–by S. Scott © 2006

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