Retirement
is home with the dogs
who bask in constant attention
expect their morning walk
relish tit-bits at lunch ...
and home with the cat
who takes her siestas any time
on a home-stay lap.
It’s home with the vegetables and shrubs
watering when they need it
dispensing fertilizer, spraying
not only at weekends
not only after work
when all good plants are tucked up
in their comfort rug of fading light.
It’s shopping at leisure
maybe morning, maybe afternoon
not a frenzied lunch-hour rush
or finding food in a friendless superchain
after work, hungry and dog-tired
or scurrying into the city one Saturday
in need of a pair of shoes.
It’s a weekly long weekend of seven days.
No need to set the alarm
wake up under a shower
toss down breakfast
pack the briefcase
shuffle off.
This mortal coil
is here to be enjoyed.
Other poems by Liz McQuilkin
Last Day of Leave
Five Senses of Distaste
The Bride
Word Music