Tuesday morning I wake to rain,
distant thunder, nothing severe,
the whir of the ceiling fan, birdsong.
Sleeping with windows open a mistake;
my head aches with sinus pain,
but life is short and night air sweet.
It’s still quite early, short of six,
and there was no need for alarm;
my pounding head’s what broke my sleep.
The commotion I hear is just the cat,
skating the hardwoods on fuzzy feet,
scoring mouse-puck under sofa.
Bathroom. Feed and water her.
Hungry, need aspirin, but back to bed.
Rain harder now, a bit of breeze
feels good as it caresses skin.
I lie and listen to the cars
pass slowly on the dampened street;
a poet, I want the exact word,
for that sound, but it eludes me.
I listen closely and discover
northbound, south don’t sound the same.
Birds a little quieter now,
probably looking for breakfast with the
arrival of grayish light.
Sevenish, I should rise, there’s work
to do, just at home, but still.
Though it’s not especially dark,
I flip on the reading light—
the table lamp has a short; it needs
replacement, but I can’t remember;
with that signal, my favorite allergen
jumps on my pillow, wants
a snuggle, a rub, a scratching of ears.
Her coat is soft, brushed last night;
she feels warm, but her nose
presses cold against my face.
Starving now, I must get up,
pull on shorts, look for food.
Head hurts too much to try to cook,
think what’s easy, banana maybe,
smeared with a bit of peanut butter,
followed by juice with a handful of aspirin.
Is it just me, or is that coffeemaker
slower than the dawning of the next
major epoch of geological time?
That’s the poem; it ends here, I think.
But where’s the moral, the lesson, the insight?
No one, I assure you, is more curious than I.
T. Allen Culpepper