Ordinary Morning

The sun rises, yawning,
from the same white-curtained window,
stretching through the tear
that the cat’s claw made
so many years ago.

Ordinary morning:
orange screaming birds in flight;
thank God mornings are not
depressingly clinical white light.

Daybreak tests its groggy voice.
Suprabhatam inspiring a King’s breakfast,
Ian Anderson drags me out of bed.
Elsewhere Ms. Fitzgerald and the Azaan
and the Grateful Dead.

Ordinary morning:
everywhere rushing up and down scales.
There is no intolerance
in the melodies of morning-time tales.

Over the weekend, I met someone who actually reads my blog. It made me realise how infrequently I write, and how much about cricket. Mayura, hope this is more agreeable!