The night before. Some sleepless nights I rise without a wink and pick
Out my clothes before showering, so they're laid out in the light of my living
Room instead of the lightless closet and wardrobe in the bedroom (she's sleeping).
A thorough shower, taking time for all the parts, because it's very early
And I've much time to kill before I'm due elsewhere. Having fresh, folded cotton
And the lesser worn layers of favorite winters, plus wool blends and heavy belts, boots
And always a bag full of books by occasionally-hated writers, plus backup storage and mints.
But the warmth of under-armor and waffle-knit with snug denim and fleece
What the lambs wear, what the lions love to tear, what the gold became and leather
From feet to waist, and the pocket briefcase under my arm. Socks I'm saving for leaving
When the cold outside won't make my feet sweat unduly in the early morning awake at home.
It sure beats prison, I tell you what, not much roomier but it's better than
England. It's better than a Tokyo tube. Better than my recurring nightmare being stuck
In a crowded and hot elevator miles below ground near Hell and the brimstone foothills near
The melting pot and core of earthen wardrobes of introvert stars, iron-diamond dust kerneled.
Though the air is mighty dry, and the cracking dead skin around my hair follicles
Is dreadful, as is the patches of flake and red rash on my chin.
But really, who am I
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