it's six o'clock
in the blessed am
and the coffee in
the bottom of my
mug is getting cold
the day is starting

with the familiar sound of
pen caps snapping on
and off sliding back and
forth in their plastic sleeve
she sits in her chair
in the dark only a tiny
blue light to shine on a
sigh here and there

i am fully made up
and totally cold
listening to the furnace
and snores that hum through
walls the scratching
of my own pen on paper

all is quiet before
sunrise
but if you listen
you can hear

what can you hear?
peace and quiet
close to that found in the
middle of the night
only less anguished
and more stoic

and so on this morning
we rise to our grind
rinse our cups
and carry on