photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash. Used with permission.
Your proposal that we call in sick and the steady beat
drummed against the windowpane by the driving sleet
divulge a secret pleasure long-buried in my actions
of playing hooky and long days devoid of verbs and fractions.
Zealous plans to fool Mom with coughs and groans and wheezes.
Crumpled Kleenex, put-on gags and manufactured sneezes.
In spite of what the calendar reveals to be a Monday,
stretching out the weekend into another fun day,
I call your boss, you call mine. By noon the clouds have lifted.
All the sleet has vanished from the corners where it drifted.
We put on boots to splash through puddles, bringing back our youth,
as silly as mere teenagers a bit long in the tooth.
We gorge on pizza, eaten in front of the TV.
I win at double solitaire. You win at Tripoly.
We pop some corn and eat it with peanut M&Ms
until the clouds roll in again and when the sunlight dims,
we return to bed again to get a little nookie—
that added pleasure when it is adults who play at hooky.