A poem about daydreaming
Statements of Fact
The morning placed its cold
clammy hand on my shoulder,
its fingers closing on the bone
as I read my paper.
Three pigeons conspired
atop a brown brick wall,
the middle one never breaking
eye contact with me.
The blue coffee mug was home
to a tribe of Indians,
their campfire spiraling up
to my still sleepy nostrils.
You entered the living room
through a dusty sunbeam,
your smile closing the drawers
of my thoughts, one by one.
