Make do, Make do

 

Make do, Make do.

It is not a song
of a bird singing
outside the window
on a slightly chilly morning
of a nascent spring
pecking its beak
on emerging leaves
that wear lighter shades of green.

Make do, Make do.

It is me bemoaning
life in a rented place
and not finding
the usual comforts of home
while drinking
my first cup
of Earl Gray.

The borrowed cup,
does not fit
the contours of my palm.

And I sing,
Make do, Make do.