36
The Morning I Woke To Be Empty

The plate she ate for dinner,
          not for dinner
          but dinner upon,
lays near the windowsill
with the morning breeze
breaking its streams of olive oil.
Undressed, faded china in the sunrise light,
revived like broken eggs exposing their protein.
My laziness left it
          in its nakedness after she left
and I drank 5 more glasses of wine,
dropped my brass tongue,
breathed odd-smelling breaths,
became heavy,
fell down from my heart muscle,
could not wake myself
          from 100 years of solitude,
until the sun, too, revealed my nakedness.

I awoke, put on a condom, began my day.

I have bones, I have skin.
I dream and I die.
Sleep is the therapy of both.



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