She ...is the Goddess of my four-in-the-mornings
... is the Florence Nightingale of my debilitated wanderings.
...does not judge.
...simply pours as I ignore the menu.
...always returns just in time to top me off.
...wears that stained, pleated apron like Aphrodite wears the summer wind.
(With that spittle-slick pencil
Balanced so precariously behind her left ear)
She... renders quiet absolution, with creme, and sugar.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 7:14 AM UTC
She ...is the Goddess of my four-in-the-mornings
... is the Florence Nightingale of my debilitated wanderings.
...does not judge.
...simply pours as I ignore the menu.
...always returns just in time to top me off.
...wears that stained, pleated apron like Aphrodite wears the summer wind.
(With that spittle-slick pencil
Balanced so precariously behind her left ear)
She... renders quiet absolution, with creme, and sugar.
copyright 2010 T.P. Mooney