Five Points, Vol. 22, No. 2Winter
With my bitter morning coffee
and the sun on the pillows outside
and on the miniature orange tree,
I am reading a little of this poet
and that one, dipping in
like a lady’s toe in several oceans.
Is this literary influence?
No, more like a pre-war jalopy
coughing to life on the 17th crank,
the black fenders shivering.
I sneak a look at myself
in the tiny mirror, and off we go.