Down the avenues
of my early-morning
mind zooms a flood
of crowded, honking
thoughts that seek
a place to park.
I’m too tired
to direct traffic,
too stressed
to sort them out.
That must wait
till later, tongue
losing its taste
of suede, on the
verge of talk.
But then they’re
gone, not a thought
in sight, not a word
remaining of that
early-morning roar,
so here I sit,
listening, waiting
for the next wave.
Perhaps tomorrow.
© 1999
(originally published in Capper's)
I don't think I was intended to be a morning person. Mornings have always been a struggle for me.
I know, I know. Morning is the best part of the day for the writer. Other concerns have not begun to intrude. The house is quiet. The brain is rested, ready to rev. Here's a whole new day beckoning.
But for me it's ... well, it's just morning. It takes me a little while to build some momentum.
I roll over, get one foot on the floor, then the other. I stand. I go teetering off in the general direction of the keyboard. I find the switch, flick it on.
By this time I have both eyes open. Things are starting to come into focus. And then, look out. Oh, look out! I'm starting to roll.
