Morning Toast and Strawberry Jam

Matthew Johnson

I don’t regret the humdrum
That wakes me up during the workweek,
Or the fact that birds singing in a weekend window
At daybreak is only pleasant on a primetime sitcom.

The rat-race, morning machine makes me forget sometimes,
That in the complacency, in the losing touch of friends and reality,
That there’s beauty in breakfast, and looking out my window,

And it looks like:
The Sun slowly dragging itself out
Like a midnight lover who doesn’t want to leave the covers,
A swarm of streaming clouds giving chase to the light,
And oh how the steamy, misty dew on the lawn
Resembles the smoke of country-fresh bacon, crackling on the stove.