had morning woke
before I did –
stumbled from his lair
maybe he’d make coffee
in my stead
lounge about the kitchen
watching from the still
where daylight poured a runway
down the hall

maybe he’d fix breakfast
and serve it to me warm
with stories of a life
beyond my bed
at ease within the silence
of moments left to share
quiet as a shadow –
as verses
on the wall

. . .