I left my lazy bones in bed this morning.
Watched them roil and turn, disintegrate
beneath the covers, to a pool of honey warmth.
Immolate sin and protestant work ethic,
my mother would have beaten such decadent indulgence
with the wooden spoon, had she not broken it
slamming it down on the table in temper.
We dared to snigger, couldn't not, regardless
of repercussions. So long ago now,
that fear instilled remains, a lash inside my mind
to drive me on, a length of pain I measure myself along,
always come up short.
