Lee Nash

On rising, to find my heart is empty –

the consolation of birdsong, water droplets gathered in rattan grooves. The children are getting ready – rushing, brushing, flushing – a rock dove coos down the ventilation grid. I make coffee, wait for the gurgle and hiss, the ugly scrape of the metal grill that fronts the workers’ bar, wind my roller blind till the cat on the neighbor’s sill stirs and stares. A diesel engine ticks over. My computer fan whirs and all the little icons are operational. I log on to see who loves me, the forecast –

Spring morning
almost filling
the moka pot