morning

D sharp shuffles through the air while waking up,
a blackandwhite piano tap of wordless thought
travels down the hall from deep within another room,
as if no one is listening to

the sideways glance of coral roses propped inside a crystal vase
beside the cold-white form of marble, carves the morning light
with gleaming hard wood floors that creak beneath a cradled look,
the Sunday tickticktick of just-before Westminster chimes

and then

the golden grip of honey on the tongue,
the china swirl of coffee spilling up the side
and over, onto scrambled eggs and bacon steaming on the plate,
predicts a sudden soundless pull, a crumbly-crescent-roll release

of all these things I like