Let's see if I have woken up
with a poem in my heart,
as Elena, my poet-friend,
the best poet I know
under the age of fifty,
has wished for me.
Morning gives me a blurry brain
and moderate energy of body
asserting itself against
the sluggishness of mind.
I wake to a hundred small annoyances,
like needles if not swords of Damocles,
hanging above my harried soul:
people to call, things to do,
errands and tasks and repentances.
I wake up grateful to have done so,
and grateful for the instant coffee
making the nerves more alert.
The forecast says 54 degrees
(twelve to you folks who reckon
in Celsius) and rain all day.
As the artsy student at U Mass
would always say, intransitive,
without the preposition: I can deal.
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
Read 117 times
Written on 2018-01-23 at 11:38
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