Coffee and a world’s worth of books.
Silence elsewhere in the house.

A cat drowsing on a bare floor
before the heat source. Paws tucked in

as she’s got nowhere to go, not right now
anyway. The nominal master of ceremonies

chooses to sit with a pad and write something,
anything really. (That would be me, of course;

who else? I know you know.) Outside it is
damn cold and snow erases all there was

to see before it came yesterday, last night,
this morning. Now with daylight it covers

everything. Like a blank page made to write
on; another story, a new letter, maybe

one more poem? No matter. Whatever
comes out matters less than all that —

just sit there and look at the coffee and the books
and of course observe the silence; take it all in.

Of course, I have vital things to do in silence.
I should do them but instead I reach for the cup

and sip. It’s a good cup. Damn good coffee.
I should recall the making of it for next time

I should do a lot of things, I should.
But I close my eyes instead.

Tomorrow. Maybe I’ll get to them
tomorrow. Maybe not. I’ll have coffee instead

and think about what I should call this, this
waiting to see where I go from here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T