morning has a wooden mission:
of a flat table
dressed with a checkered cloth,
pulling at its edges –
I pull myself downstairs
like honey from the jar
while jams sit in a line
waiting for butter knives.
the plate holding yolk-yellow
running from your mouth
with grin unfurling,
perched on the mug you like best.
newspapers open like squashblossoms,
buzzing radio hymnals –
This Must Be the Place.
(as published in Rushlight, spring 2014)