Friday Morning in the Universe

I wake up late,

again.

I think there’s birds chiming from nests in rain gutters sloping off the roof.
But it might be telephone pole construction at the end of the block.

This window, blinds included, a sorry excuse for shade.
Winter sun blazes my unopened eyes like interrogation lights.

Sweaty. Smells like…. sweat. And stale spit.
Fissured lips, sandpaper tongue, copper to taste.

Paper due in four hours and twenty five minutes.
Won’t start before the stars and sun’s rump come out to play.

My DNA, stacked, circles the world a 100,000 times could care less
about removing hairy legs and atrophied cheese toes
to swing, stretching, jerking and groaning
like some prehistoric poultry: Eeeeyegeahhha!

With thoughts like, “How did the Catskills get their name?”
did a cat really kill someone and if so why didn’t they just
name it after the cat’s name or maybe it didn’t have a name
or maybe it’s the skills of a cat. Stupid.

Stupid. Stupid – what’s going on today? Just fifteen more minutes.
I’ll skip breakfast. Shower? No. I’m going to be hungry.
But tomorrow’s Saturday? Here’s to hoping.