When I get up, and the sun is yet
struggling to light a fire
so that we may see a way forward,
and I feel the rolling aches across
my back and in the sinews
of a knotted soul, and
I reflect ghostliness in the bathroom
mirror as the shower fog stretches
across the glass to obscure, well it’s
just another day, isn’t it?
another sobered generation,
another cloudy crusade,
another ticking tocked —
another person punctuated.
