Mondays are just young Fridays

That familiar taste,
commonplace. Each morning
anticipation, your psyche
awakens to the sound
or sight. Beyond daylight,
end of night; always slow
until you break your fast.
Delightful steam,
a fresh brew, nothing stands
between certain pleasure
and you.
Some days it is the coffee.
Some days it is the quiet.
Many days
you are in a rush,
yet always find time
for the morning cup.

04/08/2019                                       j.g.l.

 

APRIL IS POETRY MONTH
fresh poetry served every day

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