sometimes when I wake up,

open my eyes to the red numbers

on my alarm clock,

brash & ignorant, boldly flashing

its illiterate sensibilities

I calculate how many hours minutes

Ive got

until I have to drag myself

from the warm hole of my blankets;



(sheets smell satisfyingly

like dirty hair & body heat &

cats curled bodies around my legs)



something in me rebels

at the thought of myself

in the shower, in my car

chain-smoking on the drive to work

shocking my body with caffeine

& nicotine, preparing to

leave my various sloppy realities

behind me with practiced warm smiles

& soulless enthusiasm;



my work-self has short-circuited

& my real-self picks up the phone

to call in sick while my soul

looks on proudly,

the minutes & hours stretch empty,

the sun climbs over the horizon

& I have no thoughts about it,

content to let the day revert back

to me, humming

with its possibilities.

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