Poem 247

Again, not a morning person …

( I like the city’s cupboardful of broken china, the blade of morning rocking back and forth like a pizza cutter, and being wheedled out of dreams … )

Malaise

How many people are sick of work
     this grainy morning the city's cupboardful
of broken china grinding
not especially cold
not cold enough to be worth mentioning

how many rise to fall back
to try again
in the dark behind windows
    bleating clocks
the blade of morning rocking back and forth
across the world

how many people are sick of play in all
     the full world choked by routines
they loved yesterday sick of going out
sick of staying in sick of certainty
sick without
                      tired bored
                                          night
shovelling them under only to unearth
again
          wheedled out of dreams
where they argue round in circles
or live in houses that long since
blew away

          how many are sick
                                             sick sick today