Melancholy rides the coffee steam,
and this vapor of cloud over blue skies.
It’s not the weeping thing;
It’s more like the stiffness in over-used muscles,
More like the little wrinkle of worry between my eyebrows,
the way each snore from my sleeping teen
seems like a life-clock, ticking away the present moment.
I can love so broadly that the furthest galaxies
become my close confidants,
even the dust motes in a brief sun-lick seem
unapproachable and lonely.
I wish I could wrap my skin in tin-foil
And deflect everything sodden and gray,
But not today.