In sane in the mundane.

Mother has here her male friends,
they work in the green
to her laborious needs they tend.
One sister has made her orders,
another escape among chemical romance,
and money, hard to come by,
walks off in the distance.
While the other sis goes to share
artisan ideas and graphic up some paper
on her day of work,
I sit, my dog scratching behind me,
with music playing so loud it heals
the hidden hurts.
This, an ordinary Saturday, is
beautifully aligned in normality.
These are the times of our early
thirties.
The easiest years of my life,
today, we will play in the mundane,
although it doesn’t feel like it,
I am certainly at my most sane.

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