quarta-feira, 11 de junho de 2014

Another morning poem

 Another morning poem.

It’s not so cold.
The horn-rimmed morning
  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
throwing her shutters wide open
onto a day in life.
But not so.  My calendar
Is murky red, marked
by other devices.

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