Little Notes come on
the internet
Through cyber space on a bet.
The cold rain on my window
Tries to make a good show.
Mother rests quietly in her room,
We bury his mother soon,
I read of a cousin’s battle
While she won’t rattle,
Her mother’s trial on the table
But soon will be more able.
An acquaintance tell of her travail
As she cares for her husband’s ail.
Another feels she is going to hell,
I’m not so sure she isn’t there now, as well.
Now the floor must be get a mop,
Cooking for the funeral on top,
Why am I so content,
When mind should be rent.
With all these circumstance,
It must be because I learned to dance.
