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
RF Image
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