by Mike McCulley - Montesano, Washington
Some days the sun pokes
over the horizon, warming
the treetops, birds call out
the alarm, blossoms open
their night-wraps put on a face
and sing out a fragrance.
Some days it’s the donuts
and black coffee that give me
a bump-start long after the birds
and blossoms have settled
on a scheme. I catch up with
the day’s rhythm, get in synch
with the pivot arm swinging
around, pooka-pooka-pooka
Some days it’s a donut
that’s hard to digest, swirling
around my innards, a big swirl
and sloshing black water
the pivot arm isn’t swinging
ruin is slopping about
no one hears the alarm
no one smells death coming
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