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How Perfect Is The Morning

How perfect is the morning
before the sun awakes, darkness pervades
this household... my wife turns in her sleep.

Reaching for my slippers, robe tied,
I feel but cannot see, life's treasures
about me, I ask not sympathy.

Carefully I move about, partially close
the bedroom door, accompanied by our cat,
Kahlua, descend to the minuscule kitchen
of our condinium's other floor.

Empty the dishwasher, feed her,
she thanks me, purrs in satisfaction,
leaves the room...

Bills on the foyer table to be mailed,
bring in the newspapers,
switch on the ancient computer,
thoughts to be expressed,
alive I guess...

How perfect is the morning?
Peaceful, that is best.

Author: Roy Schoenberg - Bay Shore, New York.

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