Pick up a cup
of full-bodied morning.
Dressed for success,
or a pauper’s funeral.
Ask the day
if it has any plans
for me?
The street is quiet,
I know it doesn’t care, anyway.
Take a minute
to run though things
in my head.
So much I don’t understand,
but there isn’t much I can do.
Just sit here,
hours before sunrise,
feeling powerless.
Shake my head.
A penchant for melancholy
makes for a half-decent poet,
but a terrible husband,
and a worse leader.
I know my purpose
is asleep upstairs
and my work boots
are by the door.
DJR – 2022
