Sunday morning muse
My damaged head reminds me
how much wine I took to bed,
still unsure on legs that stamp
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.