It is 6:57. Startled am I,
by the nights dream.
Son of Jocasta, King of Thebes!

I head t’ward the morning steam,
To rid one’s eyes of the malaise
A few stabs
And my mind is clear.

Abruptly, like fire on the agora.
Desire veer me to vices!

A cup of Columbian roast, with stoge in hand,
I perch upon the balcony,
With no intent to slip, I s’pose

Each inhalation and sip
Fulfill temporal desire
beneath our aging celestial fire.

7:54
I am out the door,
out out with it!
It being me, me being it.