I’m Not a Morning Person

Mornings come like a chainsaw

buzzing, biting, in my brain.

I am gruff and hungry –

a bear whose long, dark sleep

has been interrupted

in the dead of winter.

I look to accuse

my disturbers of dreams,

and there they are

in a neat little row

at the end of my bed.

Duty and responsibility,

obligation and propriety.

“Rise and shine!”

they cheerfully shout,

and I am outraged

at their audacity.

Their invasion of my sanctuary.

And the child I,

the I of no cares or worries,

throws a temper tantrum,

kicking and screaming

in my head,

ignored by the robins

on the front lawn

catching their early worms.