The poetry of Samuel Swauger

Breakfast Poem

Why do you wake up so late in the morning,
only when rush-hour traffic has split the doves’
chatter to industrial screeching, and all I can
turn to is the rhythm of your heart?

I wish we could talk over scrambled eggs and
hazelnut coffee, when the road is tongue-tied,
and the grass out back is awash in orange under
the sunrise.

Just a half-hour meal would feel like days, we’d
talk about your beautiful dreams and what to do
with ourselves on hot Saturday nights when
comforters don’t.

For once the sky wouldn’t be so melancholy,
like when the clouds come low and smother
us, soaking up our aspirations for a pretty day
in pastel fog.

When it’s chilly, my pillows are cold as marble
countertops. The bedside lamp radiates a
mellow glow, but the fog chokes it out and I
move by your siren song.

Your voice is crisp and sweet. When the birds
are gone I think of how you said my surname
that first time. Oh, I don’t remember who I was
before we met.

Samuel Swauger is a poet from Towson, Maryland. Some of his work appears in the magazines Wordgathering, Third Wednesday, and the Front Porch Review. His website is and his Twitter is @samuelswauger.

One comment

  1. I was too busy to sit down and read this lovely poem by Sam Swagger until today, Oct. 31, but I’m glad I found the time to appreciate the relaxed, artful lines of his verse. His affection for his sweetheart and appreciation of his surroundings, both natural and man-made, give a lilting tone to his words and brought a sly smile of recognition to my lips. This poem is a comforter that does.


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