An Ode To 8:43 a.m.

It's midway through the week,
The coffee here is cheap,
I should be in an awesome mood,
but the dog stepped in her own crap in the yard, and then ran from me, certain the fistful of damp paper towels I held was some sort of dog torture device, so there is a string of dog poop footsteps all over the porch, and one terrified, dogcrap-scented, 84-lb. mutt hiding behind the patio furniture.