Tiptoe around- in the pitch dark
across the chiseled old creeky floorboards
as others sleep above you
slide and feel with your feet the sharp edges of the coffee table
sitting in the tightest space it can be
covering almost all your living room...
brush against the puffy corners of the Ottoman
to get to where you need to be
where your feet rest during the early hours of a new day arising
as you listen to Bethoven
and breathe-
in the dusty specks on the piano next to you
Shuffle, and hear the silence broken
above you
as the moth flickers closer
toward the lightbulb
hiding beneath the lampshade
which is conveniently switched off for
others not to see you.
MuffysBookClub
I just loved this poem. I love to wake up, get coffee and sit in my favorite chair and write my candle light. You captured my anticipation of the stolen time ... time just for myself so beautifully.