there’s a fog at 7 am
in the air and
on the brain
my mouth’s dry and my back hurts
not old but not quite young anymore
just slow, languid
in thought and deed
there’s day old coffee
waiting to be warmed
and other morning rituals
too tired to be completed
even the dog thinks it’s too early
to start the day
there’s a damp reality
that’s taciturn in it’s purpose
It’s quiet at this hour,
obscure with only the sound
of desperate traffic
as limbo rests
behind a famished sun
In this moment we’re
all just daredevils
or toy soldiers
waiting to be rallied