Monday, February 23, 2009

A (bad) Poem

Nose, congested to the umpteenth degree. Air does not pass.
Daughter, napping finally. Screamed herself to sleep.
Husband, feverish and working. Needs to feel better soon.
Ceiling, being painted. It better not suck.
Knitting, a possibility this eve. If I live that long.


Suz said...

uh oh, does that mean the yuckiness you felt in NY has turned into a cold?

MUDNYC said...

You lived that long but did not knit. Oh why oh why could you not commit?