I wake in the morning,
and scratch my legs.
is fine enough
a long rest in the morning
like wine squeezed from dying flowers,
lying under these sheets
which cover half my body, gray cotton
in moldy moonshadow,
set against the protests of sun
spread on the walls
Someone is combing her hair in the mirror.
Someone is scrambling eggs,
who will sit back down again,
propping her back against the wall,
to eat them.
Cars go outside
with the sound of waves on water
and the weather is at the window
scratching like a cat
to come in.