Wake up calm. It will be morning soon.
Hours disappear, then shatter at the
sound of a phone call (wrong number).
Your mobile bleats when it’s time to
change the battery, in that awfully
disconnected voice that’s had reverb
added to it, in the room where you
remain alone. Eat a mandarin. That’s
better. No use trying to go back to
sleep. You’ve deposited enough hours
in that bank to fund your hibernation,
this winter, when it comes. It will.
Television wakes you again. When did
you switch it on anyway? Consenting
adults. Leave the room. Be sure to
wrap yourself in warm clothes, for
it is cold this morning. The Minimart’s
open forever. Buy cans of hot coffee.
Sit outside and watch the businessmen
leaving their apartments, MP3 players
already fitted. A soundtrack you can’t
hear jettisons them towards offices
that are already lit. Return to your
room and watch television again. It’s
Samuel L. Jackson in a kilt. Leave the
mandarins where they are. Shower.
Catch the subway. The morning mist
has not yet cleared. This day in the
land of the morning calm is already
several hours older. Sit in front of
the monitor. Work. Write this poem.
