Sunday, May 11, 2008


He marvels at the orderliness of things.

These days the birds start singing

at precisely four-forty-seven,

and the newspaper man makes his stop

at the house next door at six-o-six.

Stranger still, his breath enters and leaves

with correctness, his quiet heart

carries on its duties in a trustworthy way,

and the stars stream

the way they’re supposed to stream.

It’s astonishing to consider this

as he eats his perfect piece of toast

and dawn delivers another ideal day

at his doorstep.

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