I have no interest in anything
but waking up, eating breakfast.
Irish coffee. Getting dress, getting
undressed, and laying in bed.
Just for the thoughtlessness of it. That
morning seems to happen twice.
And I'm sorry because I know
that things are sexier unknown.
But I've got this growing need
to show you what my underclothes
look like. Which is what I'm sheathed
in when I slip between the sheets.
Again reflected in the plain weave
patterned light and humid breath
beneath; and television on but
sound real low. How am I accidentally
starving myself but for the calories
of alcohol and dry toast.
