the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,
then night with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?
This is the best -
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso -
maybe a splash of water on the face,
a palmful of vitamins -
but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,
dictionary and atlas open on the rug,
the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,
a cello on the radio,
and, if necessary, the windows -
trees fifty, a hundred years old
out there,
heavy clouds on the way
and the lawn steaming like a horse
in the early morning.
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by Billy Collins, 2002
