Morning Blues Poem by bob barci

He sits alone, again,
at the breakfast table
this Sunday morning.
He sits, alone,
wondering how,
how will he shake this mood he’s in?
Sunday morning blues have struck again.
Although it’s just a silly mood,
a stupid feeling that
shouldn’t even be there,
he can’t get rid of it.
It sticks like glue.
A pot of flavored coffee,
a favorite singer on the stereo,
doesn’t seem to help any.
He needs something more.
Exactly what, he doesn’t know.
Perhaps he needs to be sidetracked.
Something to keep him occupied.
Too busy to notice
that he’s alone.
I’m sure that given time
his mood will pass.
It usually does.