The day is so early
I haven’t yet hatches a poem
to let the deep yellow yolk
drip over my page.
Instead I pour waves of hot
caffeine over my tongue,
sweet cream lingers.
The tiny white oval at the top of my paper cup
delivering salvation with every sip.
Hoping that words find their way through my hand
I stare at the parallel blue lines
interjected by a bold vertical pink
I am a prisoner to the blank spaces between them,
waiting for freedom found
in the flowing ink of a ballpoint pen.