An Aubade of Sorts


My dawn doesn’t race across the sky

in a chariot, or even on a Vespa;

it  merely filters in through milky sheers.


You depart with sleepy eyes and

a half-hug, carrying your shoes,

but no tragedy ensues:


I enjoyed your company;

I’ll probably see you again.

It’s all good.


But right now, there’s fresh coffee,

a cheese omelette, my journal,

on a day with no one’s agenda.


Copyright 2013

T. Allen Culpepper