Bitchy
bitchy
In the morning now
there is a rage
at waking,
carrying this pain,
from dreams of fleet
footed joy.
I won’t speak until
tea is poured into
my mumbling soul.
Everything is
dusted with a fine
layer of gripes. I polish
with my housecoat sleeve.
It is the kettles fault
this itchy feeling of
discontent which rides
me. Yes, today it is
the kettles fault
for being too slow.
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