Sunday morning comes too soon.
I wake to puffs of cloud that are cigarette smoke lazily leaking from beyond raspberry lips.
Sunrise has come and gone
Tangerine and Grapefuit sky has faded
to plain old gray
before my eyes have even opened.
I will toss and turn for the last ten minutes
like the hinges on a swinging door
(A blind man once told me
that metaphor is a bird that lands too easily
Is that ironic?)
I sleep too late
connect with cold tile
give my eyes their own windows
cover my face
with matte and gloss and gloss and matte
so I'm shiny in all the right places.
For who and for what and why?
To sit in an empty office
sip my coffee and wait for someone to call.
Author notes
This is not finished yet. A work in progress.
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