This Morning

an enigmatic poem left for the reader to ponder on

This Morning

Fransivan MacKenzie

Half-asleep,

I type and type away into this battered desk

while Cavetown sings in the background,

wired with the gurgles of the washing machine,

his voice as if borrowed from a cassette tape,

every guitar strum sounding almost like a click

of a retractable pen.

It's 7:30 where I am and I dream of trains

that used to chase through mornings like this, hazy,

as if the entire landscape through the window

is a borrowed photograph from 2013

where everything I knew about beams and bodies was wrong,

where love is but a summer breeze to run after.

Half-asleep,

I type and type away into this battered desk

while my mind pedals me

through the pavements swept clean, mapless,

making short visits over unguarded graves

of guardians who passed away,

leaving baby boys with white carnations

plucked from someone else's garden at 3AM,

adoring one's mouth mourning for a mother.

I leave the song on loop.

It will be hours before I will burn bacons

and sunny side ups.

I fill pages after pages

and when the washing machine halts,

I turn the percolator on,

gulp caffeine on an empty stomach,

and scald my tongue.