Dawn Dreaming

Finally, the light opens its mouth, speaks for the fading shadow-forms, that are slipping away, over the pale moon. Dogs sniff the freshening air. Cats roll over, nap again, for as long as it takes. I used to smoke, I would go out into the unmade dawn, and smoke until the world took shape around me. Now I sit in a dark kitchen, sip black coffee, breathe through a deviated septum, waiting for the next sucker punch, or the birth of a newly christened Jesus. Last night, in an addictive dream a spectral Amazon van, delivered a box of Lucky Strikes. I smoked them all by morning.