Sunday morning muse

My damaged head reminds me  
how much wine I took to bed,  
still unsure on legs that stamp  
each step.  
 
The bathroom slaps me cold  
in my feeling old, can't handle it face.  
Piss proud I lean cheek first  
and taste the dry streaks of  
toothpaste on the mirror.  

The angry kettle spills hot  
as I yawn into caffeine,  
still wrapped in a quilt.  
I slide back the conservatory door  
and bathe in a burst of warm air.  
My favourite sun-bleached chair  
has been harvesting heat,  
enough to feed my aches for a while.  
 
The dog finishes off my cereal bowl  
then curls like a cat on my lap.
Her bad breath asks a question
of why we eat our own weekly shit
and the answer is simply Sunday morning;
the light returns.