I love the morning sounds this house affords:
The stove-hiss of coffee, the percolation
Of radio, bedroom cadences,
Birdsong. Wakening words.
The low, warm burble of American,
And sunlight streaming through the hall
Soften the taunts and silences
Of last night's withdrawal.
Ghost-faced and grey, the laptop screen in my room
Readies itself for more of the same:
The iron rod of reproof,
Or some fresh dalliance. Or blame.
A humming bird, tremulous, visitant, on the deck
Distracts me from all this when I step out
To inhale the ...