awakened
by sunlight.
the long hard
fingers
of morning
scratch your
eyes, making
you say something
like, what
the hell, it's
Monday again.
you are sick
of work.
of making money
to survive
in this world.
you want to win
the lottery,
marry a sugar
momma,
maybe your son
could strike it
rich and have mercy
on you,
helping you
get up from
the floor
where the days
hands have you
around the throat.