This Morning

This Morning

At 3:25 this morning
lying in bed in the dark
my feet are chilly and
I am thinking about shit.
Thinking. Mentally.
About shit.
Am I an excrementalist?

Do I have to get up
and make a note of that?
Or, will I remember?
If I get up I could put
socks on and maybe a
sweatshirt.

Then I hear the voice
in my head that I use
when I am talking
to you.

That's the signal.

It's now 3:40 a.m.
I've written it down and
turned off the light.

The birds have started chirping.
Maybe their feet are cold.


4/17/12