Morning

Why do we bother with the rest of the day,

The swale of the afternoon,

The sudden dip into evening,

Then night with his notorious perfumes,

His many-pointed stars?

This is the best—

Throwing off the light covers,

Feet on the cold floor,

And buzzing around the house on espresso—

Maybe a splash of water on the face,

A palmful of vitamins—

But mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

Dictionary and atlas open on the rug,

The typewriter waiting for the key of the head,

A cello on the radio,

And, if necessary, the windows—

Trees fifty, a hundred years old

Out there,

Heavy clouds on the way

And the lawn steaming like a horse

In the early morning.