My Morning Guest

A cup of coffee.
A back alley with tables.
No phones. A tablet of paper.
A pen.

A struggling. Mornings are hard.
Silence is healing and rare.
Coffee is partially a prop,
partially medicine.

It is time to write.
To separate the darkness from light,
an act of creation,
necessary each and every day,

breakfast with my demons,
dining alone. “I am waiting for someone.”
I tell them, but they are slow to leave.
“I am waiting for someone, I tell them.”

My morning guest. God,
who banishes the dark,
one dawnish moment at a time. until finally
I can taste both the coffee and the light.

About this poem.

It is no secret to my regular readers that I often write of my depression to push back my depression.

The word “inspiration” comes from a root word that means “God-breathed”.

And that is what gets me through, and on to a functional day.

I am blessed.

Tom

PS: The picture was taken in Venice.