My Morningly Visit
—
and every day begins with coffee;
the fresh ground percolations pull me out
of the echoing caverns of league-deep sleep.
—
Sleepy illusions compose the newspaper of imagination.
A well-wrought column greets the morning with an enthusiastic bow,
but the writer didn’t run out for caffeine last night
and his grammar mistook me for careless.
I read for the story, glasses on,
perusing for a good day,
a day that was lost among the slow blinks that refreshed his monitor.
—
The table in the corner will never invite
anyone into its two empty chairs,
faded by harmonized wear.
There was once a couple, probably.
—
His better half sits at a high table
for the two years I’ve known.
She never turns to the table or me.
—
His leaving is that of a dog turned stray,
begging, smelling, wagging at the door.
—
Coffee is better uninterrupted by such things,
by such dreams.
I’ll sit at the table tomorrow and read for a better day.