With the dead flakes and ashes
that fall from my dandruff and freckles
on a bad day
I feed the birds, and watch them fly away
Rolling on a hay mattress, like a book
I read the brail metropolis of cities
and the stretching lines of country sides
on my weary palms, from the vantage point
of my hemispheric window, with sheer disdain
heeding no anticipations and making no promises,
it’s a black coffee morning
It’s a lazy day
At my sneezing they bustle about
fussing over my mood of grey
and linen on the line
If only they knew how uninterested
and unmoved I am
by the farmer’s dismay
that I shed no tears today
Heaven knows, I’d much rather
make no promises and stay in;
light a cigarette, wallow in the poetry
of my unmade bed, and tell no lies
Having no appointments, today
I will paint my nails