Spring Morning

Everyone has their own way of sleeping:
in nine miles of beaded silk;
wrapped in a pirate's beard;
thumb-sucking coital curl,
or starfish spread.

Each has their own way of waking:
soft and creamy lip-delicious;
gelignite start up,
or sputter-crawl blanket roll
to bury your head and wish
there was no day-awaiting pounce.

I'm wrapped in a huddle of pale blue
polar fleece and little hearts.
Spring is blossoming chirpily
outside my window.

The hollow beside me echoes emptily
as the soldier bear has dragged from his post
and gone off to war in his corporate box.

I have 15 minutes of blanket cuddles
before the floor claims my feet
and the day busies off in random directions,
stealing my mind for mundane occupations -
leaving no space for free styling -
no time for seven voyages with Sinbad,
or the tales from Arabian nights.

Only the wicked Queen
swirls upon her iron shoes
behind the ching of cash register,
the ting of cutlery.