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Morning

Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,
 
then night with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?
 
This is the best—
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso—
 
maybe a splash of water on the face,
a palmful of vitamins—
but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,
 
dictionary and atlas open on the rug,
the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,
a cello on the radio,
 
and, if necessary, the windows—
trees fifty, a hundred years old
out there,
heavy clouds on the way
and the lawn steaming like a horse
in the early morning.
Other works by Billy Collins...



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