The wall before us is a pale Green
literally; the paint is that color.
And the ceramic dish under my feet
Is all shards and shit. Sweeping

5:56 into a pile of laments: Too quickly
the future from 5:33, which is the once when
I’m jarred by the jangling sirens of the alarm
dopplering by and on down the block.

I rolled from my palette, cotton and spring,
Pattering softly atop the cedar in socks
Until I noticed my roommate made himself
A missing person. I’d never tell him

What deep delight are the mornings made
In the kitchen before Dayspring breaks-
Free to clank the pan upon the stove full
Of wet yolks and sizzling margarine.

Returning from the kitchen, converting
The pattering to pounding, the feeling found
Beneath my lumpish heels is but is not as
Liberating as the privileged sensation

Of a thick omelette sliding down your throat
Unchewed, not unlike the two years I lived
Considering size of a butter dollop, or whether
To add to my Black a spot of cream or not.

Still beneath this space the heater frizzles
and burns my shin-hair, when I notice the Red
Demitasse from this unique morning only
two weeks ago, nodding its cocky little head.