In the morning she ties her robe
so now the morning is
a mélange of peachy pinks to me
 
 
 
If this mélange could only be poured into her demitasse

                    all your peach-noir-pink
                pouring it into me
 
 
 

If it’s dark enough

                    dream time dawn colored enough

 
 
 

Yes, looking at you now is like waking up from the dream
with the bottle of crème de menthe still in my hand

 
 
 

But a bad morning is a bitter morning
in your mouth is the taste of chickory to me

 
 
 

If before you go
would you wake up again?
Wake up like a Will Cotton
framed in gold, yawning
 
 
                    but when I call you a Will Cotton
          try not to open your mouth please

 

 

When I call you a Will Cotton
I am telling you that in the morning
around half-past ten
you look like a 17th century Dutch still-life to me

 
 
 

with your peach languor perversely
idling without end
or if at the end

 
 
 

you and your eggs Florentine
or if at the end
only a bunch of silly papers

 
 
 

. . . . and the glass of orange juice next to the eggs Florentine . . . .
                    *****
 
If you are a white elephant, they say, then you are actually naturally pink
 
 
 
. . . . . . . . . But if you are a glass rinsed with bitters, then filled with gin . . .