It’s often that I shut my eyes to see the morning darkness wake in sounds like slushing cars going by, and I know the snow has melted. I see the dripping drops form into icicles that hang from drainpipes by metallic plops of water in constant rhythm. I’ll sip at coffee that is creamy tan told by its taste of milky smoothness in the roundness of the cup.
I’ll breakfast from the cupboard where uneaten dreams are kept. And disappointed by the light, I’ll see the day.
(Addendum: Not for nuttin’, but those ten words have got to be the best I’ve ever strung together: "I’ll breakfast from the cupboard where uneaten dreams are kept." Maybe I’ll even throw them up permanently on the site somewhere.)
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology