It’s the nature of most mornings:
Get up, slowly become aware of the
lack of memories rendered during sleep.
Dreamless, and lacking a quality nightmare,
living a longed-for life:
simple, with a partner who loves,
a child who adores, and job that pays –
how lucky can you get and plain as can be.
trying to pick up
speed to get through
the kitchen wondering why
its not overwrought
by the condition.
(Should I know better?)
See who cares.
Dishes can break; toast can burn.
Still, I enjoy these mornings
when nothing is wrong,
passion is lacking,
and my poem won’t work.