on a three-dog night
as the cracked shades pull down
around my shoulders.
The moon is plucking

older. Morning stealthy hums
like a Trappist nun. And I’ll
trudge out of this bed like I’m pulling
a sled of bricks. Stumble into the kitchen

to fix my morning coffee. The chair
is cold and hard as toffee. But I
plunk into it like a stone. And mull over
this day with feet of clay falling

asleep in their fuzzy slippers,
as I sip on the sludge in my mug. I can’t
budge out of this chair to wash my face,
brush my teeth and do my hair. So, I stare

into space and wonder how I got here. Yesterday
I was spry and could fly out the door. Today everything
hangs like the dust on the ceiling. And the only thing
that grows is the mold on the bathroom floor.