MORNING

morning, you sonofabitch

morning
you sonofabitch
you’ve ran off with my pants
the white light of snow
through the window
claws at my eyes
as i awake
to realize
i do not have my car

oh God
morning
the children through the wall
their screams of joy
like nails scratching at
my styrofoam skull
each hurricane tumble
a year off my life

i do not have my car
and my blood is made of whiskey
today is a beautiful fucking unicorn
that i don’t want to chase
but god dammit my bag
is in my car
and there’s two hour parking
where i parked
and this poem will probably be
the minute too late
as i arrive to blaring tow truck
eating my four-wheeled livelihood
like a black hole, a dark star
and this asteroid floats through space
pulled by all the gravities of the universe
hungover as shit
and not gonna lie
smiling

smiling at the demon i was
and the wretched angel i awoke as
this morning

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

5 thoughts on “MORNING”

      1. Ah, this is your neighbour’s wall! Sorry, I misunderstood. As for the rest of your excellent poem, my shared love of whiskey makes me wholly sympathetic!

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