A poem for Wednesday

I'm not a morning person. Are you? But I think that's mostly because I don't much like what I'm waking up to Monday to Friday. A commute on the subway and bus to a godforsaken office location. But, I feel like I could be a morning person if I was getting up to something different. To write. Or to walk. Or read.

And on the weekends when I wake and realize that I am getting up for that, I'm transformed into morning person. If you run into me on a weekend morning I'll smile and be shyly moved by every last thing around me. And I'll fall in love a million times in those few hours. And I forget about the me that's not a morning person. This poem is by Billy Collins.

Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
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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