Morning poem

SOMETHING FALTERS

Something falters

with this wind coming through my kitchen window

lets call it a breeze, then words on a book take this moment elsewhere,

can it be more than cold lonely mornings

that spin my mind to other years?

what was it that was said

By Auden?

By Spender?

By Heaney?

By someone?

Lost in poems of silent libraries,

does it matter? this moment between coffee and lunch

when the body's needs are simple and temporal,

words fall and that's it,

it’s time to go out

and begin to breathe in this city.