Classic Poem

The day gets slowly started.
A rap at the bedroom door,
bitter coffee, hot cereal, juice
the color of sun which
isn"t out this morning. A
cool shower, a shave, soothing
Noxzema for razor burn. A bed
is made. The paper doesn"t come
until twelve or one. A gray shine
out the windows. " No one
leaves the building until
those scissors are returned. "
It"s that kind of a place.
Nonetheless, I"ve seen worse.
The worried gray is melting
into sunlight. I wish I"d
brought my book of enlightening
literary essays. I wish it
were lunch time. I wish I had
an appetite. The day agrees
with me better than it did, or,
better, I agree with it. I"ll
slide down a sunslip yet, this
crass September morning.