The best morning
has the hot sun
burning drafts
of smog and the sounds
of a strange new breed
of insect
chirping high in the breeze.
The best morning has cheese
and eggs
brought by that waitress
offering an eternal warm-up.
And the cream sits
in sweating silver.
The phone never rings.
The child never cries.
The price of Coke
is a dollar twenty five
and the change in your pocket
buys the first round.
The best morning is a quiet corner,
left alone,
writing a poem like this
or forgetting poetry existed at all.

written on 06/20/2012 by: Matt Kane