Monday morning,
before dawn.
The only sounds are
forced air through vents,
the cat crying from
room to room
wanting me to play
with him,
and in the
distance, traffic on the interstate.
On the table, my
tie, which I probably won’t wear,
a turkey and
cheese sandwich, an apple,
The
Decay of the Angel
by Mishima,
my briefcase in
which to carry all this.
For breakfast, a
glass of orange juice,
oatmeal and dried
cranberries—the usual.
And, daffodils rising
like the sun.
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