the sun's perfect circle
rises like a cosmic erection
an indian print curtain
could be its contraception
blocking life making rays
from waking me too early-
when grumpiness is certain.
my eyelids shudder, ask mr. sandman
for another
minute of preordained rest
as my little son shrieks in the background
begging for a flow of milk
from my missing wife's breast
the space next to me in bed
as empty as a scorched prairie.
