The unidentifiable beauty in a Sunday morning blues

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First foot out,
touching reality.
Live underneath a blanket,
safeguarded confidentiality.

Second foot exposed,
strike two for the floor.
No hiding from the cold,
it's not a poetic metaphor.

Slowly bending over,
first sock on.
Can’t find the second one,
an early morning phenomenon.

Twenty steps away from coffee,
the battle starts again.
No noise or swearing,
got to act like a gentleman.

Kettle on the stove,
the weather forecast on TV.
Deliberately empty bottle,
Repsol is terrorising me.

Decisions are to be made,
back to bed or be a man.
Changing the orange bottle,
or go back to where all began.

The sun is out,
it won’t be cold,
A one socked naked body,
embarrassment to be unfold.

While manhood retracts,
carrying a heavy load.
Eyes starring from a window,
last bit of pride is swallowed.

Connected orange energy,
flames underneath a kettle.
The smell of brewing coffee,
worthwhile the early morning battle.

Brown gold poured,
seeing different dimensions,
back to the living,
with a cup full of good intentions.

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