The Belgian Quarter

I like the morning
The path untrodden and the flag firmly furled
They clean the detritus of the night before
When I hid behind my hotel room door

The wilderland forged from clay and sand
Fresh foliage from a spray can
Gives up it's starting role as,
The bustle steals my quiet stroll

 

The Muffin Man

Apple Muffin
Apparently I'm the Muffin Man
I don't live on Drury Lane
But when faced with mounds of baked goods
I choose the muffin, over and over again

Apparently I'm the Muffin Man
I'm not a fan of change
So when there are no muffins
It messes with my brain

I know that I'm the Muffin Man
And what you might not see
I find a comfort in consistency
That soothes my anxiety