(This is a poem that I wrote in about 1995. I say 1995, but it could be anytime around then, as I was quite prolific at the time, and, as is a running motif in my life, I was excellent at keeping a system of indexing my work - ahem - to the point where I would have considered it aberrant behaviour on my behalf to be remiss in recording the date and status of mind, except - well, except that always has been the case in my life (hence the running motif reference) to the point where it isn't working at all and I have to rebuild a new system - and apparently, as I discovered this evening, such a schism in organisational prowess seems to have occurred about exactly when this poem was penned. Anyway... once upon a time.) MORNING
Day breaks
And unrested, alone I wake.
I rise with slumber’s rage
Without the pillow of another spine,
My arms around a chest entwined:
Sleep leaves me best when I arise
With another -
and shower and wash
away the night’s devotion,
Massages me with body lotion;
Feeds me well, gives caffeine hits -
I am soon unclouded of morning mists.
Yet this day crests,
And alone am I, too.
And I say
“Poor me”.
“Poor you.”
