That tight morning
where sleep tethers you to the bed
sprawled and aching, holding
to whats quickly sifting away to
plague some other misinterpreted daydream
or spark an ethereal deja vu
that catches you and spins you around, gently
to face all that has been done and

is now thundering back towards you
with a roar like applause
and force like a freight train,
lumbering and clumsy with its contents
that are spilling loudly over the sides like

the time you poured the orange juice
into it's crystalline glass
and it overflowed and stained the white carpet orange but
still cured the morning sickness you were so afraid of
the sickness we've all inspired since before we were born.