Billy Collins

(22 March 1941 - / New York City)

Morning - Poem by Billy Collins

Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,

then night with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?

This is the best—
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso—

maybe a splash of water on the face,
a palmful of vitamins—
but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,
the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,
a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows—
trees fifty, a hundred years old
out there,
heavy clouds on the way
and the lawn steaming like a horse
in the early morning.

Comments about Morning by Billy Collins

  • G. Akanji Olaniyi (12/19/2015 1:14:00 AM)

    I like painting did that very well here! tfs (Report) Reply

    3 person liked.
    5 person did not like.
  • Mohammed Asim Nehal (12/9/2015 12:56:00 PM)

    Nice imagery and great poem, I liked it. (Report) Reply

Read all 2 comments »

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Poem Submitted: Monday, December 7, 2015

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