The Morning News

An illuminated lamp shade
hovers over a head of hair,
both sharing the same shade of color.

One made of faux brass
the other withered skin and bone.

She in her pink robe
flicks open the morning paper,
brings a mug to her thin lips.

And in those movements
she finds the comfort of
small predictability
in a wholly unpredictable world.

The coffee is hot, as usual.

The paper reeks of ink and death, as usual.

And the little bulb burns diligently
above her wizened head, as usual.