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Sunday Morning
Coffee's getting cold But it would be a shame to interupt this Perfect lounging With a barefooted padding down carpeted stair and onto icy tile (Skating over the cracks, dancing on tiptoe, blades slicing through frost as I cocoon myself in my patient arms) To wait for steam to swoop over my head into the draughty air, To wait for the purring of boiling water. Dewy leaves brush the window, leaving traces of breath As I look out onto the yard packed golden with sunrise; alarm of birds; the nostalgia of school mornings pulling at me like an unfinished song, a sweet childish dread, a Sunday night sadness. Instead I gulp down lukewarm liquid, Increasingly bitter as if the sugar is freezing at the bottom, And I turn over, stretching my feet into the cool folds of hidden sleep.
10:09 a.m. - 2009-07-19
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