Past Noon
Oct 6 2013


It is past noon.

I roll over
to painful light,
thick-tongued, and foul.

On the kitchen counter
crusted plates are hardening,
and a sink-full of cups, rims smudged
are halfway up
with warm cloudy stuff.
Brown scum
on scuffed stainless steel,
where swampy water
receded.

Under rumpled covers
it is sick-bed warm,
something ripe, even growing.
A trail of empty clothes
where they were shed, on the floor
by feel.
And the air is close
from too much re-breathing,
in need of oxygen.

I roll over, again
bury my face in the pillow,
its white synthetic case
now permanently unpressed.
Like the mess
of badly wrinkled sheets
gathered round my feet

even bleach cannot restore.

The morning after
the night before
is afternoon, already.
Mid-winter
and soon the sun will set.
Merciful rest
for the living dead,
the good, and the wicked,

the damned

the blessed.