But to Be Alive
The morning routine.
Shuffle to the kitchen.
Start the old brew.
Lay back down,
next to my dog, next to my man.
They sleep.
I dream with my eyes open.
My body's always remembered
better than my mind.
Lately, my bones carry
more pain than I'd like.
Even so, this drawn face flickers
with sparks of pleasure.
Somewhere, from deep in my chest,
pops a pang of joy (ancient recollection that it is).
Only fools look for conclusions in a sunrise.
Yet here I am.
A light bulb about to burn out.
A short-circuiting toaster
with its last shred of doubt, yes.
But here I am yet.
Made it to seven thirty, in fact.
My maker beeps.
Oh! How dark the bitterness!
How sweet the cream.
About the Creator
Anna Volk
Poet for life and creator in multiple mediums.
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