Oh, when the bridle wire
pulls her comb and her teeth
begin their play, their tin-can
morning melodies are
mocking me, so gay.
"Oh," is what I say.
How is it these sirens
strike 6, and 7, and 4?
No day is as before,
a roller-coaster melody,
looping back-and-forth.
My body aches with gravity.
My blood: mercury soup—
poisoned, heavy metals;
cold and acid blue.
"Hey, Siri, Siri, Siri," I say,
"Snooze." So I snooze.
I lie in loopy lazy land,
a furtive ball of sheets
till her ding-dongs start again.
Delay is my defeat.
Not all days are like this.
Some days I sleep in.
But then the devils taunt me.
They blame me for my sin.
In my groggy stupor
I pull my eyes awake.
I start my upright gait.
I wait, I wait, I wait
to see if I'm okay.
When it is I'm not,
I say sorry to the Gods.
I plead with them, they laugh.
I plead with them some more.
"But the graph, my sleep math!"
I reckon that it's poor—
just minutes of deep sleep.
What an awful score.
Please, Lord, Oh Lord, Oh Lord,
am I worthy of a pour?
But that's the drink of devils,
so I reason with the floor.
Cold and dark and dusty,
the grounds make no reply,
so I burn them with hot water
and wait for them to cry
sweet, sweet wails called
coffee, a drop into the cup,
the farthest thing from Holy Grail,
but at least, alas, I'm up.
