A Song of Praises

for the gray nudge of dawn at the window
for the chill that hangs around the bed and slips
its cold tongue under the covers
for the cat that walks over my face purring murderously
for the warmth of the hip next to mine and sweet lethargy
for the cranking up of the will until it turns me out of bed
for the robe's caress along arm and neck
for the welcome of hot water, the dissolving of
the night's stiff mask in the warm washcloth
for the light along the while porcelain sink
for the toothbrush's savory invasion of the tomb of the mouth
and resurrection of the breath
for the warm lather and the clean scrape of the razor
and the skin smooth and pink that emerges
for the steam of the shower, the apprehensive shiver and then
its warm enfolding of the shoulders
its falling on the head like grace
its anointing of the whole body
and the soap's smooth absolution
for the rough nap of the towel and its message to each skin cell
for the hairbrush's pulling and pulling,
waking the root of each hair
for the reassuring snap of elastic
for the hug of the belt that pulls all together

for the smell of coffee rising up the stairs announcing paradise
for the glass of golden juice in which light is condensed
and the grapefruit's sweet flesh

for the eggs like two peaks over which the sun rises
and the jam for which the strawberries of summer have
saved themselves

for the light whose long shaft lifts the kitchen
into the realms of day
for Mozart elegantly measuring out the gazebos
of heaven on the radio
and for her face, for whom the kettle sings, the coffee percs,
and all the yellow birds in the wallpaper spread their wings.

Copyright 1996, Robert Siegel, All Rights Reserved