Morning Thoughts

It’s similar to baseball, to hit a homerun, thrumming this life; and such inhibition,

a bedtime dream, walling through bedrooms. That’s wall to wall, to grip a button,

thinking of grandma. I saw a tub, filled with blood, to pull the cork. Its pencils

and

ink, and psyches and shrinks, squeezing toothpaste; where thoughts chatter, to

figure for zip-codes, a difference in behavior. I need for syrup, a woman divine,

to pause and chat; but I grip a toilet, to upchuck guts, in need of towels. It’s not

the same, to holler—“Birthday,” in need of doctors. The farmer farms, the

dreamer dreams, both a forehead of traumas. A vowel is pain, to hold for is, and

blank come sunrise. I grabbed a napkin, to sketch a number—to a perfect stranger.

We laugh and cry, for butterfly stomachs, to forget we loved. The nights are

spurts,      

the luck of seven, to touch an oval face.

            Its shampoo tears, and torn tissues, to love a pagan.     I gaze a toothbrush, 
to venture garbage, a wagon of woes; and there’s a fire-truck, and blazing sirens, to

awaken reality.     We die so harshly, the first to bicycle, and scrape a knee. The

piano blares, to skip for chants, a mixture come sundown; and more a piggybank,

a vault of dreams, to hope for millions.     Its screwdriver pains, and fajita tears, a

computer near the soul; but love is grand, to heal a scar, tossing tomatoes.