MorningMy patchy kettle sulkingly burns my coffee residue
fresh-hot from yesterday's muck.
I gratuitously choke on it,
easing smoke through my gullet
like that pervasive daily sun eases mulishly
lace snagged and uninvited;
slick into my newborn retinas.
I can see in the white, bleach-light of noon
we are sick of the birdsong;
the light shaking disappointed fists
while I sit, my bed-sweaty back braced against it:
I wheeze through my coffee and sit vigil.
Bedding coils in dormant patience for the night;
viper-nightmares snooze, folded in my sheets -
they awake only to my scent. My daytimes watch them,
my nighttimes are their reign.
I sleep alone, these days -
my covers feathered hell-fire,
pillows fattened with shame.