Honest-
ly Abraham—I am
no hero;
this—is just how it all
works
in the morning:
I twist a dial
that lights the fire
that mechanically requites
the warmth of my family;
followed—thickly
by a commonplace
trickle—
of exotic banana-
smell and a quick little
conviviality—actuated by love
to be sure,
but compartmentalized
faithfully,
and lubed-
up justly
and liberally—with automatic easycream,
easysugar coffee—and,
as long as we can
spare it—
with a dash
from that old
box of yours
called—malice
toward none.
