On time, instigator of routine,
the sun, yellow as fat.
Then the all day what-not of work.
Later, fantasize, then television–the dull repetition
of make believe–this is the only way to sleep.
The bed is cold now, but thickly built
of blankets of wool. Sleep there
and dream of sleeping there–that way,
with luck, twice the rest.
Every morning imitates a yesterday.
Make the tea, then unmake it in the belly.
Like a little drought, let the bread become toast.
The windows are eyes; they can’t help
but explain the world. Glass paned postcards
of weather conditions will ever be this good
again. Of course, they can still get worse.
Steady as the muscular heart, there’s always this:
what, after all, is after all this?
Then, as sudden as accident,
the vulgar bleat of the telephone: my brother today
is father to an entire girl
and the qualm, like night’s glistening
under the round ball of daybreak,
evaporates diamond bright.