in the morning

you wake
up coughing, deep
lung
bursting coughs.
your ears rattle
like small glass windows
in your skull.
you think of your father
and his
camel cigarettes,
his whiskey,
blowing his nose
as he sits
on the side
of the bed,
black boxer shorts,
black socks,
a new cut on his head.
a train wreck.
and here you are
coughing,
trying hard to clear
the pipes,
no black socks,
or boxers,
no cuts, but
you're no different.