It is
the smell of warm toast which excites me;
the taste of melted butter and mom's preserves.
A new
day, a cold floor, an old desire:
my
right-hand self has no intention
of
relinquishing these covers;
my left
conjures images of adolescence,
when I
was secure in having no choice.
I watch that I must finally succumb to
reality
and
become my own mediator,
least
childhood reclaim me.
Besides,
by that
punk, Dougie, at the bus stop,
while
he was held back.
What a malicious invention, these
"snooze-alarms"
--too
much time for thought
before
the body is called into motion.
It is,
at last, anger
which
jettisons me from my womb.
Are you
still stalking that bus stop?
Sorry,
Dougie,
I have
much more pressing engagements.