Sundays

There's no sun to sit and warm ourselves The dampness of the early morning rain Has kept us inside You, reading the paper And I, typing another sonnet about you The dog is sleeping on the sofa His back is against the arm rest With his eyes closed I wonder if he's dreaming About going outside In the distance, the dryer echoes As I started with a small load And within an hour, it will be done Then I would fold and put away the clothes Suddenly, it becomes the afternoon How much we spend our Sundays like this Watching the cars on our quiet street go by