Poem: "Writing in the Early Morning"

He was privileged
to hold his cup in his hand
and sip the coffee.
It was an honor
to have another day
driving up to his house
in its fancy car. It was
a mark of distinction
that his toast had turned
the perfect shade of brown,
and that butter
was shimmering on its surface.
And he was fortunate
to find a word
just when he most needed it,
shining like a special award.