The Good Life, In Spite of It All
In the morning, our naked sleepy
bodies curled like geography into the
cotton choreography of freshly washed sheets.
First, the scent of French roast and the
strangely comforting on-and-on of the morning news.
Afterwards, after twisting inward towards
this and that and skin and scent and what
really matters, there are the things
we must do. Like get dressed. Such as,
shower. Scrub. Take the loofah to our asses.
Eat breakfast on the couch.
Begin to think about what’s next.
Plan for the future, even when the future
is such as it is, a quarter hour, four times
per hour, twenty-four hours per day,
like pouring a second cup, finding the unmatched
socks, buttering toast, frying bacon, scrambling eggs,
making ends meet. In the morning,
every morning, it is what is is.
We are who we are. We are. We. Us. This.
Is good.
Sensual Afflictions 