It’s not like a poem
to come curl by my feet
on this morning too beautiful
to describe,
though I am looking
and listening
and waiting:

A rooster crows
above the low hum
of morning traffic;

the trash truck
spills air from brakes
and rattles empties into bins;

my neighbor hammers
his endless projects
with meticulous efficiency,

so I try to do the same:

Slowly sipping coffee
from an old mug
with a broken handle
I cast a trusted lure
into a familiar hole
and pull these few drops
of dark, still waters
into my boat.

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