Each morning starts at 8:08 a.m.
The Wailers back up Bob on her alarm.
She stops herself from hitting Snooze (that gem).
The cat paws lightly at her stretched out arm.
In sleepy downward dog she finds her limbs.
The whistling kettle boils Earl Grey.
Inhales okay exhales here day begins.
Alright, Feline, some tuna for your tray?
She showered yesterday so dresses fast,
pats cucumber extract beneath her eyes,
grabs keys phone wallet, checks the stove, and last,
takes out the trash to keep away the flies.
Out on the sidewalk meets her first demand:
a charming man approaches, gun in hand.
So platitude — how could this scene be real?
Anxieties as classic as sir Freud…
But for a second I thought What's the deal?
Despite the foggy edges, still I toyed
around with the idea. Lithe, lucid sounds?
ignited sight, touch, smell. Come on! I felt
a gypsy pull my hand. Escape the hounds,
then cut the rope. Secure your hat and belt!
But as the boat departed from the shore,
who else but you out on the dock appeared,
sweat saturating sea green shirt you wore.
At me your greener eyes squinted and peered.
Salacia, my salts forever yours!
My pillow falls from Neptune's blue seahorse.
The threat of icy roads deterred our drive
up north for a long weekend in the Cat-
skills, so we thought why not urbanely thrive?
Already bundled — buried in that hat,
you arctic polar cub — come dandle me.
We grabbed some bungees, kept our boots secured,
and transported across the park. Slick ski
(whoosh!) slides beside its Nordic twin, allured
by limpid snow on Central Park's Great Lawn
where Upper West joins Upper East in peace.
The city kids make igloos, mittens on,
and fly supine with angel wings of fleece-
lace. Snowflakes flirt, and fine frost-fibers hold
light-kissing tilted faces in the cold.
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