tending to the tide

I wake early, but at least I wake. Dreams slowly drained from the inflamed and confused senses, the drift of self like a symptom of some chronic condition, the weight of identity embarrassingly heavy draped across my limbs. I shuffle into whatever shoes are closest, push through the tangled thrill of dogs into the hallway, to the beacon light of the bathroom to see if my kidneys are still working. I make uncertain water, so very aware of the years pissed away, painful and pitiful and utterly without surprise.

I cough clouds of fitful steam beneath these plots of clouds and stars, familiar constellations lingering on the roof. I stumble with lock and key, pick up whatever paper the morning means today. I scan the street, see where it sleeps and where it is stirring. The stage is slow but full of furtive witness, whether the first early bird of the morning or the last stragglers of the night. I go inside and search for clues of your coming in every place that isn't here. I start my day between wish and ache, wanting you before I have a name.

Somehow the mirror is still there staring. Somehow the sun slips its fingers in, always ready to pour it on. I drink my coffee and I keep my place. The world dances on and on. I teeter on the balance board of utility and ruin, scuffing along this dull calling. Scraping by on the bones cast off by this ravening nation of ghosts and demons, sifting through the stars and words until I get a glimmer of condensation. I mind the ancient proprieties and speak your name out loud. The spell is cast, the die is tossed, I am tending to the tide of all my tomorrows. Every day I choose my poison, always wishing it was you.