GOOD MORNING!


We enter from the wings of sleep
like walkers off the hills of dreams -
hungry, sweaty,
void of all but soreness.

The usual scene is set before us:
the empty frig,
the unemptied dishwasher.

Our faces, barely awake,
are crumpled like the moody sheets;
we should know better
than to prologue
over the final drop of milk.

The old breakfast argument
spills like coffee:
ground, dry-roasted,
the same brand every time.

The one-line chorus
parrot repeats:
"Not my turn",
"Well, not my turn!"

The next act in the bathroom
is better...