Their Morning Voices

by John Grey

And it is predictably unsaid, the day comes first,

Wednesday this time, and the sun, and the pictures

on the dresser, all masquerading as the time past,

the time to come. It is silent behind yawns. It hides

beneath bedclothes. The throat should be its

friend but it’s off to gargle. The hands are to the

forefront but they’re fumbling for the light-switch.

It’s morning and the bladder has hit critical mass.

Veins are nervous for coffee, afflictions for their

pill stream. There’s two people in the house

but neither will acknowledge the other. A man

needs to retrieve his own skin. A woman must

find her face in the fog of sleep. One’s on the

stairs. One’s already in the kitchen. Sure, they love

each other. But by nine o’clock at the earliest.

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Filed under Issue 7, Poetry

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