Not much has changed on these mornings:
I still wake, grind the coffee beans,
Fill the basket, press the red button,
Get in the shower while things brew,
Pull on jeans and socks, pour a cup,
Watch as the cream swirls and darkens,
Sit down and roll a cigarette.
But now I stand and leave one room
To examine books neatly stacked
In another long-neglected.
So much has changed. On these mornings
I stroll back into the kitchen
Where what I see in the mirror
Is a reflection on your smile.