Ah, the Beautiful Allergens!

Cottonwood tufts glide

through the fungal springtime air,

dotting roofs like snow.


Copyright 2017

T. Allen Culpepper


Lines Written a Few Minutes Before Drinking Some Much Needed Coffee


Tuesday morning I wake to rain,

distant thunder, nothing severe,

the whir of the ceiling fan, birdsong.

Sleeping with windows open a mistake;

my head aches with sinus pain,

but life is short and night air sweet.

It’s still quite early, short of six,

and there was no need for alarm;

my pounding head’s what broke my sleep.

The commotion I hear is just the cat,

skating the hardwoods on fuzzy feet,

scoring mouse-puck under sofa.

Bathroom. Feed and water her.

Hungry, need aspirin, but back to bed.

Rain harder now, a bit of breeze

feels good as it caresses skin.

I lie and listen to the cars

pass slowly on the dampened street;

a poet, I want the exact word,

for that sound, but it eludes me.

I listen closely and discover

northbound, south don’t sound the same.

Birds a little quieter now,

probably looking for breakfast with the

arrival of grayish light.

Sevenish, I should rise, there’s work

to do, just at home, but still.

Though it’s not especially dark,

I flip on the reading light—

the table lamp has a short; it needs

replacement, but I can’t remember;

with that signal, my favorite allergen

jumps on my pillow, wants

a snuggle, a rub, a scratching of ears.

Her coat is soft, brushed last night;

she feels warm, but her nose

presses cold against my face.

Starving now, I must get up,

pull on shorts, look for food.

Head hurts too much to try to cook,

think what’s easy, banana maybe,

smeared with a bit of peanut butter,

followed by juice with a handful of aspirin.

Is it just me, or is that coffeemaker

slower than the dawning of the next

major epoch of geological time?

That’s the poem; it ends here, I think.

But where’s the moral, the lesson, the insight?

No one, I assure you, is more curious than I.


Copyright 2013

T. Allen Culpepper