image from cabroworld.com
“Monday, Monday, can’t trust that day--
sometimes it just turns out that way.”
--the Mamas and the Papas.
The cat demanding its breakfast blended
with the bastard-buzz from his clock radio--
6:00am. Opening his eyes, he caught a
flicker on the back of his lids form the last
moment of his dream--a wharf rat sitting on
his chest, its red eyes bellicose.
His right arm was numb from some awkward
sleeping position. His pillow case was damp
from his slumber’s open mouth drool. Tossing
his blankets back, he immediately felt the
September chill in the room. He stood up
stiffly and walked across the cold hardwood
floor to the open window; he preferred to sleep
in a cooled room. Shutting the window he
managed to muffle some of the traffic noise.
Standing up in the shower, with his hands high on
the wall, the steaming hot water finally pronounced
him “fully awake”. Damn, did he scribble down the
phone number of that hot blonde from the bar last
night? Why didn’t he use a condom? Whiskey stupid.
Could he ever find her place again? Would that dent
he left on that silver Lexus get somebody excited this
morning? The plumbing thunked as he turned off the
shower. Barely dry, he stepped boldly out into that
blue Monday maze.
Hawks like pigeon eggs
from the nest on the roof next
door--their breakfast raw.
Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub