Through the window
the world brightens slowly.
I am early, first to emerge
from the nocturnal black cloud.
A single green-poled streetlamp
glows burnt-orange,
a sunlike orb across the
avenue, perched on a wet lawn.
These two blinding liquid-crystal monitors
reflect my profile in the window glare.
My features seem a blur,
vacant and pale and white:
awkward black glasses over a thick nose,
hiding skinny eyes,
lips chapped from the deepening
season and a forlorn mound of hair.
My heart moves begrudgingly,
its reluctant pulses
prefer lost bedside comforts.
My tea is overbrewed, a waste.
I keep the office light off, because
I prefer the darkness.
And as always, I'm sure this Monday morning
is missing something.
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1 comment:
there is an emptiness about this poem that seems very relevant in today's workworld, and the speaker's awareness of it tells the real story here.
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