Connemara morning early
iron grey sky
scarping waves
of sharp and tempered steel
and a sun barely creeping
on peaty bog
and marshy sheep-shod field
here dwelt the silent ones
fertile gods of Erin's clan
who fed the earth
and coaxed the land
solemn faces watch us still
through smoky mist
on emerald hill

a twisted stomach
chemical nervousness
this city heave     dawning

i see him off.
i shut the door.
i climb back into bed.

toes in lasting body heat.
covers on my head.

bleary eyes on yellowed screen til
warmth's faded away.

i check the time
and heave a sigh.
it's time to start the day.

Early morning rain
washes any weekend traces
from coffee scented Monday faces

And another morning happens,
awoken by the oxidized groan and stretch
of the lumbering machines
that live in the dirt pile
in front of my apartment

there used to be a farm there,
and there used to be someone
in my bed and darker curtains in my room
but a lot changes in a year

there's still a tiny hole
in the corner of my bathtub
that greets the curve of my foot
every time I step into the shower

i can't tell if it's gotten any
bigger or not
or if the water i hear dripping
is from some other fixture
for me to look at another day

i know my kitchen sink still overflows
not with bubbles
not anymore
but with the dishes i've put off
for almost three days

i wish the men in hard hats
across the street would do the same,
tell themselves that they'll get to that
concrete patch, hole digging, pipe laying,
belt grinding, beam building, horn honking,
sound of trucks backing up
tomorrow
so i could sleep in for once

but they've got a job to do
and sandwiches someone wrapped for them
in aluminum foil
to eat at lunch

and i've got to do the dishes
so i can have a spoon
for my cereal

its these winter mornings
where any thought
of greeting
the dawning day
with warm thoughts
hopeful exuberance
and a positive outlook
will quickly be silenced
along with
the birdsong of
that overly optimistic alarm
that melody
so carefully selected
to ease consciousness
into a brightened state
of motivation
of joy
despised within seconds
immediately cut short
and resented for
its mindless persistence

the first excuse
a need for another
ten minutes
of warmth and comfort
to prepare
for the day
for life in general
perhaps
the second
a negotiated concession
that there was
no real reason
to get up
early anyway
finally
uncertain whether
in victory
   or defeat
the alarm will be
cancelled completely
along with the rest
of the day

Twin glasses of orange juice, froth quietly fizzling out
A plate of turkey bacon piled overzealously high

I would cook you French toast every day, if you'd let me.

Fresh croissants from a bakery down the street
Halved strawberries drizzled with honey

I'll sprinkle cinnamon in our coffee, just like my grandmother used to.

I don't know much of love, but I know this:
When the sun breaks through my kitchen window,
I hope you'll be sitting at the table.

Early morning tea
Sleepy hands on a china bowl
Peace in the garden