Squirrel

The brief lull, time to myself;
Or rather
Alone in the living room

Until.

The calm exploded by energy awakened;
Hungry, anxious, jockeying for first place.
Who holds the remote is king.
When all three are under the roof of the rented split level on .75 wooded acre

But back to me, damn it.
And my time alone.

The glow of the companion
Brahms, Variations on a Theme of Haydn
Fan Fiction Composition?

The smell of litter boxes muddying an otherwise serene atmosphere.

IF! you ignore the loveseat bereft of the leather from its cushion,
Bags of clothing to be donated, (Note to self - yada, yada)
Apples to Apples on a stereo speaker (you told someone to put away that game three weeks ago),
The elliptical, the reason you're up at this hour, with no miles yet clocked,
And the squirrel.

Who at this very moment is staring through the window, head cocked to one side;
Who, if he could speak, would declare that it's well-beyond time to refill the squirrel feeder.
Yes, yes, he knows some creatures (including you) call it a birdfeeder.
But come on.

Squirrels are nothing if not realistic.

The moment of calm now over.

The Pi Shirt has descended from On High,
Or rather, upstairs,
To fill the air with the aroma of freshly-made coffee,
And a sense that if you don't get on the elliptical soon,
The day will be lost;
And somehow the squirrels (in your brain)
Will have won.