Like a dust mop with feet, shirking her duties, she's grounded in the corner entertaining the sun.
"Shirk what?" She says nonchalantly. "I'm a cat. It's what I do."
"Shirk what?" She says nonchalantly. "I'm a cat. It's what I do."
A wisp of chimney smoke frolics outside my window like a lost spirit trying to find a home.
"I'm not lost." It says insouciantly. "It's what I do."
Why do I ponder minutiae and impose significance on the mundane? I ask myself ostentatiously.
"It's what I do."
1 comment:
Dude, you're such a writer!
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