Today I didn’t break my arm
nor did I rupture my appendix.
I got up at six a.m.
and probably will go to bed
before eleven, certainly
by midnight, at the latest.
I read a book—a hundred pages.
I had supper with a friend.
I didn’t grumble very much
about the pang of emptiness
I feel at times when I come home
and here I am—alone again.
Tomorrow I shall grumble less.
I didn’t lie. I didn’t cheat.
I didn’t steal. I did my bit
for peace. I wish I had a dog—
but that’s a problem I can fix.
There’s glass on all my windows
and a carpet on my floor.
I have a clean and pleasant kitchen
and some dishes in the cupboard.
There are those who’d miss me if I didn’t
call them every week or two.
I care about them, so I do.
It rained this afternoon, a pleasant
interlude before the heat.
There’s food in the refrigerator,
shoes for both my feet; and there
are blankets on the bed. And if
there isn’t money in the bank,
I’m thankful for the stuff I bought
Tomorrow I’ll have company.
It’s Mrs. Beaman’s day to clean,
pick up a bag of groceries,
and wash the towels and the sheets.
I’ll have an opportunity
to write a letter to a friend
who’s happy when she hears from me
but understands my tendency
to undertake too many things.
I have my health, and never take
such things for granted any more.
I’ve no excuses to complain
and every cause to celebrate
the sunshine, and the April storm.
Thank you for another day,
dear God, and let the people say: