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
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
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
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 ...