the house is quiet before dawn
ashes in the fireplace
and remnants of dinner in the
sink
tepid glass of diluted scotch on the coffee table
I reach out to touch the wilting flowers
coffee is beginning to brew while
I stoop and peer upward
millions of stars and the same black sky
for a moment I forget where I am
I am climbing a tree before sunrise
listening for the coyotes
I am 2300 miles away, running at 4:00 a.m.
icy air biting my face and hands
I am driving 65 mph south to Boston
lost in the sea of banality
and the clock continues to tick
I check the time and exhale
the quarry is loneliness
as I pour your cup of coffee
I wonder if a light will be on upstairs
and why we try to kill each other
before we kill ourselves
© 10.27.2014 heather brager
It seems all my major thinking, regarding writing, is done in the kitchen. I suppose that may be the case for real life events, as well. I never thought about before right now.
ReplyDeleteLove what you bring here, to the table. The intensity of the closure is far more startling than any effects of caffeine.
Thank you...
ReplyDelete