Prompt: an aubade, or a morning poem.
A song from a door or a window to a sleeping woman,
Trouble is, I’m never standing and watching,
Trouble is, I’m always lying next to her, peering over her shoulder,
fielding the cat, or smelling the pillow as I languish alone,
An evening well-spent.
A walk from a bed or cocoon to another room,
Sisyphean in effort, impossible to imagine,
The frightening harsh light of day exposes all that I prefer in bed.
This is yet another reason to drink.
This is yet another means of slow, slow steps into a world I would have eschewed.
This is all about trying, despite trying,
Feeding the cat, feeling the accumulation of dirt unknown from a day
In a filthy world where skin starts pristine and ends with exhaustion.
Ending the day collapsed in a small place,
After I watch their heads from my garret window- luckless pedestrians
winding their way across the streets I’ve avoided.
Only one of us can live when the morning comes,
Only one of us will survive and until the sun flares out,
Until the power surges,
The dawn prevails, and I am forced to live
to fight another day.