NIGHT OWL

the sun always invites himself in in the morning
picking up the half-empty p.b.r. cans
and judging the full ash tray
he judges the obscure notes
on crumpled-up sheets of paper
he judges the rotting food
and the air
that tastes like leftover sex
and unbrushed teeth
he judges the fist-sized hole in the wall
and the painting that fell down
during the world war of last night
now gone cold

he doesn’t get it
he’ll never understand
the happiness that we allow ourselves
when his back is turned

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “CLEVER SALT SHAKERS”