A poem about the joy of work-day mornings
A day escaped, released from the sticky womb of night held firm in the arms of midwife morning, listen to its infant cries the wails of a newborn child unfed demanding of your bed and sleepy scant attention, it matters not that you turn your back and try to block your ears to tears of open-window traffic rage and screaming gulls that dance on bins with shoes of lead invade your head and work themselves within to violate your peace with a surgeons skill, phone alarm vibrating shrill and shaking leaking decibels that penetrate each waking fibre of your skin, you know you must begin, attend that fractious babe fill its hungry mouth to stop the bawling lured as ever by the bathroom light Thursday screams, and you her faithful moth come crawling
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