Another morning poem

 Another morning poem.

It’s not so cold.

The horn-rimmed morning

                opens

                   abruptly,

  swings out  like a metal gate

  and belts out a song,

but it’s one i’d rather

 not hear.  The

 old green chevy

I’ve seen before is

     sitting outside,

its two front tires,  bloated toes

 intruding stubbornly

in my path.  Someone else

had a visitor. 

  

There might be a promise

       of winter sunshine,

slow in coming and not wanting to

part with the chill.  I could be

              Clarissa

throwing her shutters wide open

onto a day in life.

But not so.  My calendar

Is murky red, marked

   already

by other devices.