Sunday Morning


 I sit at a homemade cedar table,

cup of instant coffee in hand,

and wonder if I ever say

anything profound, of worth.


Outside my window,

the sky, charcoal blue,

with her sickness, complains

of a January tummy ache.

She rattles kitchen light fixtures


and the birds, with their warm

weather-induced hormones,

think it is spring. They court

shamelessly in my backyard.


I think maybe

we should all be birds.

So I decide


to take off my pajamas.

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