Morning

Morning

The broken blind hangs at an angle
and the world beyond the dusty hotel window
tilts to match.

How many times have I slept
through sunrise? How many bowls
of cereal have I forfeit
to Father Time?

The covers that are still around my ankles
as I sit cross-legged in bed, laptop
atop my shins, tell me, “it doesn’t matter,”
and the hard false light falling up
from my screen to my eyes
carry cosmically meaningless sounds
crock-potted in my bowlish skull
as an empty attempt to justify
this late hour.

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