the sun rises
like a can
of chicken soup
spilling yellow
and thin
across the ragged
skyline. you push
the pillow back
over your eyes.
the sun has mistaken
you for someone
who cares, for
someone who actually
wants to get up
and do something
constructive with
his day.
you look at the clock
peeking out from
the dark cave
you've formed.
you wish you had
a cow to milk, or
a chicken laying
eggs out in the barn
house. it would
be nice to have
a goat or two.
maybe a plow horse
to cut through
the bottom forty
where you could grow
some corn, or wheat
or whatever.
you're sick of industry,
the industrial
revolution. just give me
a horse and cow,
a well to throw
a coin in. a woman
ringing the dinner bell.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment