As the sun struggles to rise, so do I.
Then when we’re both ready
I leave the house.
A cigarette on my lips and
a poem forming in my head.
While I amble I pay no attention
to the late night work of hard grafting spiders.
As I brush through their gossamer snares,
carelessly demolishing their creations.
My brain starts to fire up,
so I don’t notice
the crunch of snails.
My heavy tread disrupting their
frantic early morning rush hour.
At the bus stop I fumble for
pen and paper.
Worried my new poem
might disperse along with the
early morning mist.
Then when I arrive at work,
I place the poem on my desk.
Covering it in dust and red tape
I sit back to see
if anything germinates.