Why Not All Mornings?

recital player controls

Awake to find the clock, its hands at nine,
from sleep warmed bed I rise, in hopes my head
will clear, as in glasses used for wine
I pour some juice ice-cold, then back to bed
in tune with bird, its song divine, I kiss
my sweetheart, start to play as light and sun
on walls make rainbows; hope her boss won’t miss
the empty seat – but wait; a scent begun
in roasting beans; it sends me down the hall
for cream-laced brew, to play her game, my part,
her houseboy, barefoot back to arms that call
a man who loves, who’s filled with hers at heart.

For me the day is lost when turned away
from love. So here is where I think I’ll stay.

*

©
david coyote
September 1, 2001

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