Shower, shave, make coffee
Heat the mugs
With the remains of the water
Then write a poem
While a squirrel (a true New Yorker)
Plays in a tree
Under a sky looking eerily familiar.
And then, I suppose,
We are waiting, like all the rest.
This entry was posted on September 11, 2011, 3:55 am and is filed under Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through RSS 2.0.
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