Morning

early morning the house is as silent
as a feather falling
on the floor

the cat wakes up and checks
what it is

it is like him, silent as a cat
silent as his master
not wanting to wake up

no one boils the water
to make a smell of coffee in the air
time drags like a snail
convoluted like some thoughts
like Hamlet's
to be or
not to be

it happens most of the time
fate resolves itself

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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