Mourning Morning

The Eastern window is open and early morning birds sounds invade the room. Drawn blinds are no defense as one after the other the inevitable rays of light sneak in around each shimmering slat. At 5 o'clock. The sun hangs like a red ball in the middle of the white horizon, a flaming standard. The steam clings softly to the bathroom mirror and like misty, glorified remembrances masks the true man's reality. At 6 o'clock. A breeze brushes the wind chime hanging by the kitchen window, a tiny cry. The slant of the August sun is already painful to my eyes and tears make short trips down the side of a breakfast glass. At 7 o'clock. Across the street, a dry field plays home to a waiting boxcar. My gaze drops down. Hot water burns the face of the egg-covered plates as the softened yolks slide off like skin... 8:15 and 32 seconds. Where are the songs of yesterday? I hear the echoing screams. Turn off the air conditioning. Sit down in the halls. It's not over until the last Fat Man falls.