Dwight Gray
Sun pushes its way through half-shut blinds,
paints bars across the bedroom wall.
You remember now where you are.
Woken by the sound of a warbler
beyond the glass, interrupted by the sound
of squealing tires on a nearby road. There’s
the smell of coffee brewing,
the hiss and crackle of bacon.
A woman, already up, sings in the kitchen,
skillet and spatula providing the percussion.
There will be harsh moments today.
You didn’t break the world
but now it’s yours, overpriced and warranty expired.
The bird song beyond the glass says maybe
there will be flecks of light. You won’t know
if you don’t drag your butt out of bed to see.
