The coffee helps.
The hot water it’s in.
The cup that holds them.
The hands it warms.
The thought that tells them, “That’s hot, put it down.”
The mind that conforms to the shape of an old chair.
Their squeaks and their groans.
The coming of daylight.
The dying of old fright.
And then you are born.
And your crutches are gone.
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
William Michaelian 