At five in the morning
I peer through the blinds at the black, no
the blue morning
to see what I have to get through
to be there
to do whatever it is I do.
Miles Davis has just come in on
So What
and the bathroom mirror is fully steamed.
I keep thinking of a way of inventing
a self-drawing bath
that starts to fill with the first tap
of the snooze button,
how happy it would make me, how
the day would take on the appearance of Road Runner,
meep-meeping into the face of
my day, my boss, my desk,
as it tries, with all its Wile Cayote
to burn me to a cinder.
How happy, I think
as I place once hopeless foot
into the molten lava of my morning bath,
how happy I would be!