Breakfast

The morning is fresh.
Outside the night still gells.

I'm done with cold eggs 

For breakfast.

I go to my notebook,

New and a challenge to imagine 

Things the kookaburra 

Will tell me.

By the time I'm done 

Sun will have come 

And I'll be emptied as a container.

The sum of me printed in my neatest handwriting.

I'm not how I used to be.

No longer crazy.

I've injected into the dawn

A pause, to be sure.

I second guess myself.

Also I can see through the neighbour's window.

Why is she up, is she on drugs?

Is she dragged down 

By the ephemeral as am I,

And do these things matter or will I confess

To caring less than I'd like?

The sun is on the east side 

Coming over the ocean,

Crimson as a kiss

But bringing with it the black in the heart

That confronts the dead of silence 

Any man alive incurs

Looking as I have into the abyss. 

Too dramatic? How about this?

The dog down stairs chases 

An embarrassed ball in the courtyard.

I think it to be a beast.

Take little notice.

It's between monsters to me,

Not wild like a human 

But not exactly docile as a child is.

These are the experiential things of morning just.

I have only to make them poetic.