Morning Coffee
by Gyorgi Petri
I like the cold rooms of autumn, sitting
early in the morning at an open window,
or on the roof, dressing-gown drawn close,
the valley and the morning coffee glowing—
this cooling, that warming.
Red and yellow multiply, but the green
wanes, and into the mud the leaves
fall—fall in heaps,
the devalued currency of summer:
so much of it! so worthless!
Gradually the sky’s
downy grey turns blue, the slight
chill dies down. The tide
of day comes rolling in—
in waves, gigantic, patient, barreling.
I can start to carry on. I give myself up
to an impersonal imperative.
Morning Cough
I hate the darkness of fall mornings, rising
late from sleep to raise the blinds and find
the day has yet to start, lagging behind the moon,
the streetlights and headlights still shining—
some blinking, some flashing.
Time begins its work day, but I
delay, stumbling into the bathroom
cold—foggy,
like frost evaporating from the fading grass,
appreciated only by the air.
Eventually it makes itself known—
my morning cough, more a clearing
of my throat’s inattention to sinus drainage
during the fast of the slow night.
It can escalate until I medicate at breakfast.
After that, the sun is up. We travel
together through the day, burning fiercely.
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