The morning I do not want

7 Apr

The morning I want does not come to me.
Not from anywhere.  It does not haze
across the melt-soaked silage behind my house.
It does not gentle through the canes of last year’s raspberries.

It does not sun yellow my stark blue kitchen with warmth
or sparrow at me from the moss draped branches
of the apple tree I haven’t found time in three years to prune.

The morning I want does not come to me.
Not from anywhere.  Instead, I go to the morning
I do not want.  I wince out of bed
on my bad knee.
In the cold and dark I step on a wet diaper
and the ammonia smell squeezes out onto the floor.

I limp down the creaking stairs
while everyone I love is asleep
and load up the single chamber of my coffee cup:
acrid black liquid and milk fat.

I place the object on the table before me
and contemplate what I am about to do.
I take a breath.  The handle glints.  A light from somewhere
has entered the room and is gone.

The momentary heft,
the barrel of the mug in my palm,
calms for an instant the trembling of my hand.
I do not wish to do what I know I must.
I close my eyes and bring the instrument level with my head.

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One Response to “The morning I do not want”

  1. Nick April 10, 2011 at 2:57 pm #

    I remember when you read this is CW.

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