For is there a better name
for what follows dull, marching rain-a-days
licking pavements sloppy-grey
with their greasy ointment,
when curtained skies
end all performances at intermission?
When a second act lingers in the wings
until the actors are bid enter again
under tomorrow’s spotlight, refreshed
(or so we hope, and hope):
life’s boards sponged clean
with new dawn’s sweet unveiling.
And morning steam wafts up to
cup foggy eyes with its hurried tendrils.
And cocoa’s tempestuous froth and foam
drawing you back infinitely.
And though it passed your lips
as pure confection,
still you pause to savour
that impressionist’s lingering smudge.