SOMETHING WICKED IS HERE
You lose track of the same ten minutes every morning
on your way to blur your eyes on command
and roll picked skin between your finger and your thumb
while you supplement your daily Blue with
Laptop Time, ’cause God knows
you can’t get your fix from your collar.
Painting places you can’t attord,
you load a color called “Hard Day’s Work” onto your brush
and paint the sky.
You feed your ego its dinner,
but leave your soul’s bowl empty, and whining.
Something wicked is here, but you put on your blue filter glasses
so you can’t overdose on current events.
You keep them on your nightstand,
next to the alarm clock set ten minutes earlier.
