Monday, 7am

You greet me with

Morning , never

Good Morning—

like you did when

hearts were younger.

Morning  

rises from a

horizon, like an inmate

from a metal bed,

nothing to cushion

his nightmares—

sentenced to relive a life

that isn’t a life—

the cursing , the welts,

the bruises;

the slop passed off

as food;

the absence of

privacy,

when one needs it

the very most, gone with the

gurgle of a flush.

Good Morning

is harkened by

glows, the lilt

from a lark

at dawn,

the gradual

lift of the light,

each moment

far brighter

than the last.

Morning  is stating

the obvious, the drudge of a

turtle-drive,

the blaring of

horns at red,

a finger in the

air

from the car

that passes

on the right.

It’s the demand

from your boss

to get cracking ,

the indigestion

from the eggs, expired,

the coffee from

McDonald’s

too acidic,

the leaving of

your kitchen

without a kiss.

Good Morning

is the merge

of fervent lips,

the ecstasy

of a lingering

hug , a taste

from the dreams

before,

the confession

of a love

that never wearies,

never reaches

for a cup

until the curtains

have been opened

and you stand

in gaping awe

at what’s to come.

Andreas Gripp

September 21, 2024

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