It is morning everywhere but here.
The blinds press the windows like anxious hands.
I’m half asleep or half awake, a fraction of something,
My monsters from last night still in shadow,
Shifting on scaly claws, hissing to each other:
Sssssso … are we still chasing him?
I wonder what the blinds are holding back:
That girl who windmills her arms as she jogs,
The frantic hunt for the furious renegade terrier,
Pete’s kids on bikes, screaming pointlessly.
The neighbors look at my house, wonder if
I’ll ever get up, do something with myself.
Well, little do they know I'm working hard on spells
To block the day outside, trap it for them
To catch and release. It’s not easy.
But it’s early yet, and this room feels perfect.
There’s a reason they’re called blinds.







revised