A Bike's A Bike In Summer

	it rhymes, so it must be poetry.
	Dearest M. You ask of winter mornings, here, and I don't know what to say. Arent' mornings in the winter, everywhere, the same damn shade of grey? It rains on things it shouldn't. I break things with my words. The coffee's never strong enough. The frost has killed the birds. You ask of winter mornings, here, and I would have to say, It's afternoons in summer, here, that make curses go away. A bike's a bike, in summer. A song's a song, and lazy. The kitchen isn't filled with smoke. There are less people to be crazy. I'll get through winter mornings, here, and then through summer, too. I'll get through all the seasons, M., though, how, I've not a clue. Love, M.