Friday, April 17, 2020

Bird Poem April 2012

This Morning

At 3:25 this morning 
lying in bed in the dark 
my feet are chilly and
I am thinking about shit. 
Thinking. Mentally. About shit.
Am I an excremental - ist?

Do I have to get up
and make a note of that? Or, will I remember? 

If I get up I could put socks on 
and maybe a sweatshirt.

Then I hear the voice
in my head that I use 
when I am talking to you.
That's the signal.

It's now 3:40 a.m.
I've written it down and turned off the light.
The birds have started chirping. 
Maybe their feet are cold.

David L White 4/17/12

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