Friday Morning

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It is clear again this morning, 

sleep-scum smudging

the blinking light of the alarm  

clock, that I’ve not the clear

-eyed vision of a prophet. 


And by the rising resentment 

I feel towards the mother of my baby 

for so loudly emptying the belly

of the dishwasher, canonization 

is not a plausible option. 


It is an odd feeling to waken

to the cold rising of one’s 

utter normality. To take a shower 

with a damp towel and bar

of soap curved to fit your forearm, 


to eat an egg like everyone

else does, to be another hurried head

in the overhead time-lapse

of a bus-station or an airport.

Look left at the stoplight:

there you are, driving to work,

eating an English muffin,

and not the exception you imagined.



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