What Morning Does

What morning does is bring the edges
back over the bed where your arm is resting
on a stain half the sheets are gone, most
of the towels, and the frame around the door
is cracked from air thrusting. The building lists
to one side so all the tables are on discs.
In flat black light it's stable to listen to radio
to mother the plastic sound of a DJ's blank
mix in a room no bigger than your skull.
What DJ? What mix? What room? It seems
the mystery of clouds and the night have been lost
on me. Settled into the skin of a sleepless
man. Drinking the shavings in a sippy cup
by the bridge in a faintly tongue-in-cheek tux.
Nice bangs if you can get them and you got them
by saying so, or so you said. Go to sleep just for a bit where
the work is pleasant, the people unforgiving and distant,
followed by the realization that you are sloppy and you are second
or third, certainly no celebrity built of mixed messages and broad cues
you are just some dude in Brooklyn raking the carpet of hair.
It could matter less and in fact it does. You'll never
read this far anyway but if you do you'll know why
I keep it to myself.