Wayne J. Scank

Mornings

Gregor Nishino

You get up mornings and make black coffee; I lie in bed, my bed. How do you tell the truth? I go out and sit in the front yard; My neighbor's lawn chairs. They unbecome me.

I think of you like the baby blue Ford in the top parking lot. I can hardly say more.

I get up mornings and I make coffee, with almond milk, cinnamon, light brown sugar and a pinch of smoked sea salt. You lie in bed, yours. Things I say go out of me and back to me. I go out and sit in the back.

Smooth is slow, slow is fast, fast is power, you tell me and snap your fan. Maybe you should be writing this poem.

Is it because everyone can put their pants back on right after? That other boys sleep with other boys who will not sleep with me? I like you cutting onions in the kitchen, while I write this poem. You better watch your weight.

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