seasonal

Cold in the morning, dark in the house. All the animals are practicing their dreaming, rasping and wheezing away. My hands fumble for a pocket, they are fitful, full of cups and keys. I work what locks there are, stepping outside into the cold and glittering morning. Instantly the bones in my hands sing of their familiar complaints, my breath cast in clouds and exasperation. Each hour awake seems earlier and heavier than the last. The day always begins by getting ahead of itself. I am always struggling just to catch up.

Steam from the coffee cup, small comfort brought in these draughts and kisses, the pitiful needy sips craving wakefulness and warmth. I swallow the hot dark coffee, luxuriating in my one extant romance. That confounding of mood and habit, that confusing of stress with joy. I am up early, chasing after the wreckage of my indolence. I am up early, waiting for my day to begin.

I lack the reason of a raccoon, I lack the purpose of a possum. The winter is upon us, and all I do is ache for rain. I abide the idiosyncrasies of the weather, smoking and spilling steam, choking on this sickness, spitting out calamitous verse. I step clumsily through the lives of these abandoned and broken children, my work another example of too much problem addressed with a dollop of solution. I think about the next meal, the next check, old romances and pretty young things. I scribble something down, and make whatever move is ahead.