Dappled, isn't it?
Slotted bits of sun rays.
A radiant dalmatians coat
sprawled upon messy bedclothes.
***** sheets.
Always *****, no matter.
Yes, they've been changed.
Thousands of times, they've been changed.
That sparse sunlight
shines.
It highlights the
grime
and the sweat.
I awaken to a stiff neck,
and stretch out the cracks
and the pops
from my spine.
My bones sigh as I flick a switch.
The shower runs,
coffee is brewing in the kitchen.
I hum.
I'll be humming
for eternity,
walking through grass
and clods of mud.
My worn boots go on,
begging for a cobbler.
I'll see the sky,
the sun shares it with the daytime moon.
I'll whisper to myself:
It'll be time for bed soon.
A couple hours.
A few beers,
or whiskeys.
Waiting for that ever dependable
dappled sunlight.
It always comes.
Until it doesn't.
