a maroon mug steaming on the footstool,
my fingertips inked black from the New York Times,
a hazy morning protruding above the manicured complex.
A thought or two escaping gives rise to conversation,
about trivial concerns, not what is in the heart’s core-
a sturdy furnace stoked with potential, possibility
I am awash on a Sunday morning
and complacent, yes,
having inched from content a half an hour ago
right before I meandered to the Metro section,
right before the washing machine upstairs kicked in,
right when the last of hazy dreams from a sober Saturday night sleep
evaporated into the ether.