I will never 
tire of mornings 
such as these
when quiet quickly 
hatches into cacophony 
of footsteps and 
percolators and percussions 
of closing doors 
and finally when 
they’ve all gone 
I can sit
cup in hand 
brew in belly
and watch sun
I will never 
tire of these

People tend 
to focus 
more on
what’s not 
than what 
is so
much in
fact that 
what is
is forgotten 
and never 
to be
found again 

I see life
like a Christmas 
tree and ornaments 
like little worlds
of those people 
who read me
and at night 
when I have 
my quiet time 
I sit and 
look and wonder 
just what about 
these those and 
that made me 
welcome into those 
sparkly other places 

In me
what’s missing 
in you 
but that
wasn’t enough 
when you 
finally found 
in you 
what was 
missing and 
I became 
just another 
of many 
and any
and all 

When does 
one thing 
become history 
and stop 
being memory
is it
when the 
one carrying 
it finally 
calls it
all quits 
when the 
one who 
made it
mean something 
ceases to 
mean anything 
at all