THE COMFORT OF CLOUDS

Some days the sun visits me

bent over a barren table

still shaking from a dream,

jabs me in the eye

before I hit the bottom

of a first cup.

 

I’d prefer the company

of odd colored, quiet clouds

willing to sit a while,

drowsy uncles in no hurry,

content to stir and sip

until I choose to nod back

at them from a newspaper

opened at no special page.

 

 

Nephew, they’d always say,

nothing to worry about,

nothing a’tall.

 

 

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