The day gets slowly started. <br />A rap at the bedroom door, <br />bitter coffee, hot cereal, juice <br />the color of sun which <br />isn’t out this morning. A <br />cool shower, a shave, soothing <br />Noxzema for razor burn. A bed <br />is made. The paper doesn’t come <br />until twelve or one. A gray shine <br />out the windows. “No one <br />leaves the building until <br />those scissors are returned.” <br />It’s that kind of a place. <br />Nonetheless, I’ve seen worse. <br />The worried gray is melting <br />into sunlight. I wish I’d <br />brought my book of enlightening <br />literary essays. I wish it <br />were lunch time. I wish I had <br />an appetite. The day agrees <br />with me better than it did, or, <br />better, I agree with it. I’ll <br />slide down a sunslip yet, this <br />crass September morning.<br /><br />James Marcus Schuyler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poem-the-day-gets-slowly-started/
