You've been up too late
too late at the gates
of dreams and dream states
and your alarm clock is started
to sing wake up songs.
The stars, they roll back
and the sun down the track,
clouds totter while stacked
and leap frog daylight
while you're yawning along.
Elements of the sidewalk,
red brick and the kid's chalk,
cement and pale weed stalks,
they fit altogether like
flamingos and gnomes on a lawn
and the coffee can't help
morning rays leaving welts
and you tighten your belt
while the hands on your watch
spin with their direction all gone.
The shirt collar on this one,
the shoe laces as she runs,
the grip of the cup of the coffee that's done,
words printed on bus stops,
the lettering on the sign of the shuffling bum,
they all start to make sense
like planks screwed to a fence
around trees of ideas and ornate cement,
form chasing function,
like a bow tailed kite, picnicers drawn.
Work slips by slow and night
comes on fast,
brain bruises of day are a thing of the past.
Get home and get to the real work at hand,
graphics and wordsmith and sleepless pursuits
of functioning and simply fitted forms before sunrise,
go back to work with designer's bags
under your eyes.
