this morning

it's morning and

the kitchen tile is cold on my feet and

i feel the cookie crumbs on

my toes from last night's bout with

munchies

as i stand here preparing cafe du monde and

condensed milk ...

my mind wanders through

a forest far from here but

doesn't focus on any of the trees or

birds over head or

insects underfoot

i am nether here nor there

more like in between ...

through the window traffic horn's

playful bantering with sirens and

tires hissing as they pass by on Franklin St

the sound belies this time of year and

announces pavement is wet from

drizzle and fog ...

it is summertime here in my city but

it feels like winter overnight

and it carries through to

the morning ...

my mind knows

winter and night well and

a fog just as thick rolls in

quelling happiness like

a blanket spread over me right after falling asleep

no comfort just a fitful waking as

i readjust my pillow and

condemn my would be savior

cursing under breath ...

just then a whistle from the blue tea pot

blaring through mid morning

pulls me back from the

outer reaches of subconscious as

hot water douses coffee bean while

whistles and sirens are replaced with

liquid dipping ...

warm elixir washes fog and

haze away

soothing my throat

goose pimples call to mind

late night shots

and Manhattans up

washing away my problems

only this morning

problems stare at my sober face

and i turn to face them ...