Good morning! There’s our windowsill.
The day begins an empty cup.
We listen to the songbird trill.
“My darling, how you gonna fill
it up?”
Some early morning mindlessness
which leads us to our drowsy mop.
“What say you, Mr. Joe Abyss?”
We seize it, soften, smile, then kiss
our bony sop.
It suffers our ingratitude,
but such it is with every prop.
We prize them when we’re in the mood.
Neglect, we know, can lead to feud
within our cluttered shop.
We nonetheless compose our day,
which beckons, “Take it from the top!”
Our feet stand firmly on the clay
until we glimpse that final ray
and mind the curtains as they drop.
At night we rest, replete or spare,
and dream on each success, each flop.
Through exhalations foul and fair
we organize that human air
that billows in and out at every stop.