In the quiet hours of morning, say
between five and seven o'clock
when the bitter wind blows dusty snow
like so many stars into the streetlights,
and a cup of coffee tastes like all you need,
when I hear my son giggle in his sleep
so I know that everything is alright,
and the cats don't say a word, only
stare at me like they've been waiting
the last eight hours or so with a hope
that I'll fill up the food bowl, just then,
in the quiet hours of morning,
everything is alright.
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