Bad Poetry for Tuesday

9 Dec

It’s early
and the house is waking
though its senses struggle to
keep pace

the sounds are barely stirring,
the clock clicks, but there’s no whirring, yet,
as it counts the seconds closer to the dawn

the smells are shrouded,
still resting,
hiding their heads beneath the covers
and the stairs

the eyes don’t yet have much to see,
the lights are low by the windows;
it is easier
to see in than to see out

cereal and milk
taste somewhat familiar,
each
chew half-noticed;
oats with a touch of Crest

skin is chilled and cautious
as it renegotiates with the air,
and the warming tap water,
and the cup

The coffee maker grumbles
and steams
but renders not a scent

because it’s early
and the house has not quite fully woken yet

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