The mornings are mine.
A groggy roll-over, crack each big toe.
Lumber to the kitchen, linoleum and particle board cabinets.

The brown buzz rising from my coffee,
A six-letter word for president, or a vacuum.
The sun claws its way over the hills,
Brightening the ragged winter air.
I shiver and rotate into the grey light.

You can have my afternoons, my evenings, nights
(Especially my nights)
When the asthmatic grip of daylight finally falters,
And pillow-fed sadness begins to emerge.

I want your arm on my chest to be real,
I want to hear your humid breathing.
Smell your sleepy, dark, aroma settling into the sheets,
And finally dip into the slumber of a happy man.