Morning

(This is a poem that I wrote in about 1995.  I say 1995, but it could be anytime around then, as I was quite prolific at the time, and, as is a running motif in my life, I was excellent at keeping a system of indexing my work - ahem - to the point where I would have considered it aberrant behaviour on my behalf to be remiss in recording the date and status of mind, except - well, except that always has been the case in my life (hence the running motif reference) to the point where it isn't working at all and I have to rebuild a new system - and apparently, as I discovered this evening, such a schism in organisational prowess seems to have occurred about exactly when this poem was penned. Anyway... once upon a time.)

MORNING

Day breaks

                And unrested, alone I wake.

I rise with slumber’s rage

Without the pillow of another spine,

My arms around a chest entwined:

Sleep leaves me best when I arise

With another -

                and shower and wash

                away the night’s devotion,

Massages me with body lotion;

Feeds me well, gives caffeine hits -

                I am soon unclouded of morning mists.

Yet this day crests,

                And alone am I, too.

And I say

                “Poor me”.

                “Poor you.”