Morning, the world stretches its cramped body,
Comes out of its nightly slumber.
I stare vaguely at the clock--
It is 8:00 am, and on a Saturday,
Much too early.
I can hear my uncle's dog barking
Across the street.
Plays tag with particles of dust that
Through the blue Venetian blinds
That protectively cover the window,
The only attachment I have
To the sleepy world outside the bedroom where I
Shadows spiral and wind themselves
Around the green carpeted shag floor,
It within their shapeless, depthless grey fingers,
As the trees catch the wind outside,
Back and forth, back and forth
Like a baby's cradle at night
When its mother tries to soothe it,
Stop its doleful crying, put it to sleep.
Warm from peaceful repose, I
Gaze at shadows that leap and spin
Across my bedroom floor,
Like some sort of madcap-ballroom-dancing-gone-awry.
Getting up seems impossible,
Where two cats still
Curled up in white and orange balls at the foot of my
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