by Jarek Jarvis
Morning—gold light saunters through the window—
I wake in my old room, where the walls, once
sunburst orange, lit my bed ablaze each dawn.
I rose bathed in day’s nascent flame.
Not a gasp of spark lingers to rouse me.
The weather report beats against my door.
Dishes chatter in the kitchen. Then comes
scent of biscuits, milk-sweet gravy, coffee.
Going to the store requires a car ride
past the masty fields of corn and soybeans
just getting bushy. Summer, high, does not
forget about the coming. Fall. I forget too.
Soaring to closest capsule of commerce,
I pass under an ocean of dark cloud.