this morning is really afternoon

The Francophile says to me
around noon,
Did you notice the coffee pot
isn't spilling today?

He is like a big white cat
with blue eyes living
above a bread bakery
in Provence (when he thinks its Paris)
with a plaid driver's cap and
whiskers whiskers whiskers
won't you come in?

(Well, no I didn't notice, but
I don't trust that son of a bitch
either way
you wait until
tomorrow once you've gotten
used to the fact, and you'll find
your shirt and toes covered in
coffee when you're late for work
at something like 9 in the morning.)

He adds soy and hands me a cup
it's the one with the polka dots on it
and I cross my ankles on his lap

We stare at each other for a while
and I wonder just how long I have
before the plastic switch stops
turning red altogether and
my pillow
stops smelling like a baguette.


Nicole Kuwik
Nicole Kuwik was born in Cleveland and misses fireflies in the summer. She spends a lot of time with a fish named Mortimer, and thinks all people who write poetry should develop a taste for apple brandy. She thanks you for reading her work and hopes you like it, at least a little bit.