It’s on mornings like these I want to stay home a couple of more hours before going into work just so I can feel a little less rushed about getting the poem to a finishing point, which just means that I prefer to complete something every day and like everybody am afraid to die.  

I’m reminded of how early mornings before the sun even thought about rising my father used to read in his bed, and then when it got light out, he’d do his morning routine of shower, suit, and coffee so fast and so cold he’d be out the door almost like he was running away from the fire-lit cave in his heart that maybe could have comforted him if he’d just stayed there by its warmth and allowed it to save him.

Saying good morning to the guy during this time you’d think you were working for the kind of boss who could never be happy with your productivity, and who’d interrupt your kind words with a loud affirmative just as soon as punch you in the face for delaying him from his next psychodrama.

He didn’t know what to make of the fact that even though he accomplished pretty much everything and led a whole lot of people, he couldn’t lead himself or feel good enough about himself inside to stop calling some shady people he abhorred for emotional validation, yours truly included, sadly.

Come to think of it, that’s kind of like the way I am when I’m writing a poem, and must look at the damn clock to see how much time I have left before I must go away for a while

and step into another life for a bit, but have yet to realize, behind a wall of impulse and everyday trauma, that there’s never a need for more time to do anything because, while we’re alive, we get to die and come back all the time.