I awakened to the same sounds, and the same setting of the same scene

––Wednesday:

There was nothing prepared

as the only thing that would’ve been is coffee,

dripping when its machine’s timer is activated

which it wasn’t.

––But Tuesday’s mound of clothes smelled as if dampness

was a mortal wound; like something went wrong,

and I’ll go no further. I don’t want to frighten you.

I’m an animal who has shed its skin.

––What's to consider before total consciousness,

before my sensibilities have had a chance to make sense,

before time begins its march to the sink?

––Is there someone in need of medical attention?

Will certain catastrophes fill the phosphorescent

airways on a loop? And what of the slow, agonizing

death of the morning erection?

God must’ve had some fun with that chapter in human biology.

––Wednesday:

The arbitrary bridge between one occupation, and another.

I know why. It sits in the middle. That's the reason, and yet, here I sit

as much a part of the world as any man, or groundhog, or any one

of those crazy elementary particles passing through solid structures

to get to who knows where, to do who knows what.

––Basta! I’m not writing another word today.

So I'll tune-in to channel 56, linger there with the weather girl,

and later, allow some time for Thursday to show its face.