In the Morning Hours

When it is wet,
I dig at the pages of my newspaper with my fingernails
all muck retreating to the tree and primal  meaning
I  smell swamp, 
some days best reported as the ooze that’s fit to print

When the weather is dry,
the edges of my day are folded up and creased
by people in the  shadows,
who have placed them on hangers for me to begin

Equipped poorly in robe and slippers
and still assembling
I bend to undo the mix

When words are flung at me from space
upon my fissured driveway
like new thoughts upon a tabula rasa
they loose their source
and become a drive by shooting

I swat like Kong as would be king
as if they were two-winged planes with struts and props
sputtering, futile sounds, that pursue me to the summit,
leaving truth at risk in my clutching grasp.