Morning

I approach my bed

In the hopes of escape,

And to find upon waking

That all the day's failing

Has been not a dream,

But a comic mistake.

In the morning, I break

Off the covers as if they'd

Caked overnight with snow.

I pay the daily wage

Of uncertainty solely to breathe

What I breathe on the page.

Left at midnight on the boards

Of morning's cold stage

Awaits a tired chorus.

Absurdly I feel burdened by

Today's first possibility.

And I know that every turn

And touch of this new play

Could crack upon the icy scree

And cleave excess from

perfect form.

And I'm torn, frozen, twirling

The myth around, around

In my morning-idle mind,

These silly-sounding sounds,

This work of clumsy hands.

And I wonder what it will be,

And if I'll laugh or cry at last,

Or try to make amends.

EJR