This Morning I Become a Poet

gentle shadows alert me to

darkness of my apartment.

reaching for my new cane,

I hobble to the bathroom,

wash my face, reflect on

early hour eyelids,

step into the kitchen,

fill the blue kettle,

boil water while I

wash last night’s dishes.

I hear noise as the sanitation truck

rolls down eighty-seventh street.

I fill the cup with instant coffee,

carry it haltingly to the table.

opening the shutters, I become

a witness to early drizzle,

along with drip-drip dripping

of second floor neighbor’s air conditioner,

which adds a melancholy

punctuation to my first words.

grey, damp atmosphere is the

one in which I become a poet.

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