In Bed, Alone, with Coffee

it is a Sunday morning,
grey sky,
thin snow

and i
with thin grey hair
lie alone
thinking about the meaning
of poetry

i write
to speak my mind
to tell the truths
i cannot speak to others

there is little enough
to say
when mind and body
are neither here nor there
little enough to communicate
i work
i walk
i dream

thinking is inevitable
a word heard
creates an interior vignette
and that begets a poem
and that
another thought
to think
another window to look through
another morning to live
and smile
at the way the world
sees me

i am neither mad
nor sane
somewhere in between
as i am in culture
neither fully American
nor fully European
i stand between
looking right and left
for a clue to completion

wanting the whole world
i settle for a piece of bread
with butter and marmalade

let the day begin!