Sonnet #3

The clouds hang low.  There's moisture in the air.
I wake an hour earlier today.
I'll do the same tomorrow, if I can bear
the weight of the new routine.  My daughters play
and bicker as they brush their teeth.  My son
is off to catch the bus.  He doesn't drive.
A mortal sin for teenagers.  The one
thing I want most is coffee.  Lucky I've
got someone making it so perfectly--
sticky and sweet.  The morning is a knot
of hair and limbs and shoes and socks and bread
for sandwiches.  Until it's only me,
driving.  The coffee's gone.  And what I've got
is a poem. 

                   Disjointed like the day ahead.