These Mornings

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.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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