Sunday Morning,2p.m
Morning dawns slowly through the smoke
its gentle nudging wakes me from my from my sleep
Bodies, mounds of sweating flesh, scattered on the floor
Their figures smell like morning breath, though they don’t know what morning’s for.
And dead eyes stare, glassy, red and sore
straining through a murky fog.
Glistening yellow skin stirs,
ripe aubergine lips
A dying frog croak calls for aspirin
Or anything to quell the pain;
some cough drops for the grater in my throat
And anything to get my swollen belly flat again.
Ghostly, spectral figures float vaguely through the fog
Their mouths and eyes as blurry as their thoughts
a jigsaw puzzle memory with the edges gone
vanished in a world of Sunday’s.
poem by Jack Turner
Added by Poetry Lover
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