The coffee pot hisses its low lonely steam

The coffee pot hisses its low, lonely steam

while the rest of the apartment stays black.

I’m caught in the gap between the day and the dream

with the winter air cold on my back.

I stand at the table and look at the grain,

tracing the swirls with a bare, calloused toe.

It’s a map of the knots and a map of the stain

where the wood began long ago.

I lean my forehead against the cold pane

and watch the fog bloom from my mouth.

It’s a small, private ghost that I can't quite explain

before the light starts to move from the south.