Feeling Mean
By John Herlihy

Sometimes I wake up in the morning feeling mean,
The day all extra bright, but not what it may seem.
My dreams washed up, dried out, and on the run,
I just want to take out my meanness on everyone.
The kids run every which way from one grim look,
They know my moods as if I were an open book.
My good wife is accustomed to this habit long ago;
Truth to tell, there’s not much of me she doesn’t know.
She manages to keep quiet until my mood may settle,
Busy in the kitchen making tea by tending the kettle.
Our moods are like the weather, always storms arisin’,
We don’t always see them coming over the horizon.
The mystery of their origin lies in some dark source;
Like cave animals they appear, then run their course.