Her Morning Glory

It is when Black Skies fade to violet I see her hunched over her wooden table. Smoke slivers through her fingers, fondling the kitchen light that illuminates her newest piece.

Lips like Warhol sewed with rusted safety pins you swiped from the breast of my thrift store jacket.

And in the mornings I hear our coffee maker on its last leg, brewing your morning fix.

And I creep past you and look over your shoulder while Iggy sings in your ear and Marilyn dances on pinstripes, wondering if this will be the one that grants us the privilege to sleep until noon

Swim butt naked in our pool

And nobody sees me walking in the rain, to wait for a bus that is already gone.


*poem by Jon Vreeland, art by Alycia Vreeland 

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