I set the coffee to brew,
The scent wafting into my senses
Percolating the first thoughts
Of this sleepy morning.
I pack brown bag lunches,
Shrouding my thoughts of the commonplace
In the shiny foil wrap of significance.
The children are up,
Bounding and lively and making a racket,
Momentarily drowning out
My literary ruminations.
Knocks the orange juice to my freshly mopped floor.
Like the milk, no use crying.
I file it away in my memory, a tale saved to tell another day.
I sidestep the stickiness
And usher them to the waiting bus,
Each of them off
To discover their own plot and point of view.
My eyes veer to the blank page
Patiently beckoning from my desk.
I long to answer its call,
But the heap of dishes has a louder voice.
My hands disappear in the mountain of suds,
Muffling my muse with every swipe of the sponge.
Perhaps, just this once,
I will leave the mundane to soak.
Drying my hands, I take a seat,
Finding a few fleeting moments
To pen the precious thoughts
Before they meander from the path of consciousness.
I sit and scrawl,
Distracted from the distractions.
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