by Richard Vince
The Sun rises behind the brick wall;
She is illuminated artificially as if
The night is still here, her hair shining
Like the black coffee she serves.
She is a slave to hot water and paper cups.
Her delicate hands have become
Fortified to save them from the heat
Of boiling beverages. My bottle of water,
Freshly prepared from the tap this morning,
Seems tame by comparison.
I am unusual in my dislike of hot drinks.
Maybe she could persuade me to
Change my ways, especially on a morning
As cold as this one. She has the steam
From the coffee machine; all I have
Is her radiance to keep me warm.
Soon I will head for open country
And countless acres of daylight.
She remains stranded in artificial light
To fight artificial darkness.
I am illuminated by the rising Sun
And by her.
Posted on 11/24/2007
Copyright © 2022 Richard Vince
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Carissa Dewey on 11/25/07 at 07:35 AM|
an enjoyable read
|Posted by Michelle Angelini on 11/27/07 at 11:03 PM|
Richard, as usual, your style mixing an anonymous "she" with parts of your life, add a warm glow to my day. They are almost omniscient, yet the mystery of what "she" is thinking adds to the vibrance of your poem.