Morning

The taste of coffee,
mildly yellow, mildly bitter,
Stacks of books
turned this way and that
Soap smells,
for I know they are there
Even a Christmas tree,
old, metallic and rusting,
Jewels of dust hanging on its edges,
Truck horns at a distance,
like the bleats of an eccentric goat
strain through the pinched air.
The clock ticks away,
more stealthy now, almost cowering
And I am drawn to my corner
Where the patch of light sits
like a crouched Buddha in prayer;
driven not to hear today,
but to speak.
When the night's silence curls
the first light of day into an embrace,
I am drawn out too.