John I. Blair
Each day starts at six so very bleak:
Reluctant coughs, creaks, groans,
Sniffs, staggers, squints,
All in the cause of waking up,
Breaking up my nighttime rest.
After an automatic hour
(I donít desire the details, if details there are)
At seven, dressed, I crawl into my car,
Snap the safety harness on,
Rocket toward the daunting dawn,
There to seek some hope for my salvation
As I contain my barely corked aggression
On eight lanes of anxiety.
And I may meet a seagull circus;
Rude precision in a flock of ducks;
Splendor of incandescent clouds
Shining glory on me, unmerited;
Momentary glimpse of human faces
By whatever overture Iím blessed,
It often sings me past re-entry shock
And saves my soul by eight oíclock.
©2003 John I. Blair