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.
T. Allen Culpepper