squashpicker

for poetry day, an original from the aftermath of a wild saturday night last month:

Sunday Morning

Is this what it feels like to be alive?
Rugburns and slow-moving eyes
that watch time pass with suspicion and surprise.
I remember life having a different taste
and toothpaste won't hasten my return
to: passing time with questions that burn
in my mind, placed there by books and anxious looks
from authorities and peers; ignoring my fears;
and feeling that I'm moving vaguely forward
(though I know it would be untoward
to contemplate my destination)