Awake, to find Gravity
-remorseless bully that he is-
pressing me flat. Take up the eternal fight
and, for the moment, win.
Though sadly, a pyrrhic victory.
Chromosomes retracting, shrinking from
the grey density of dawn.
Cerebral-yoke on stretchy strings.
Mouth as dry as a lime-burner's clog.
In vain, equilibrium sought.
Brain sends out pulses to the four winds
searching for the dry-land of homeostasis.
But, like the raven,
or the crow,
or whatever bird it was that Noah sent out of the Ark first,
they return empty-handed.
(or empty-clawed, to continue the avian metaphor)
Linoleum-chilled feet, hanging on.
Clattering, splashing, spilling.
Lips pursed as if for an extended note on a post-horn,
without the syncopation this stance usually heralds.
Tilting, teeth enameling against the glass,
as if on Mother Nature's nipple.
The nectar, the nectar.
Swiftly, the ambrosia courses through arid veins.
Manfully, the urge to start sucking
this milk and honey straight from the tap,
Softly mewing with pleasure.
Pouring, rustling, tumbling.
Out come the roughly-woven rustic blankets.
Texture knobbled and world-weary.
A pile of scrunchy-dry autumnal leaves.
With the possible exception of a crumpled,
brown paper bag
this pile represents humankind's best attempt
to create something harmonious with the natural world.
I'd like to think it was the aesthete,
seldom disturbed, deep within, who told me not
to despoil this rare synarchy, by eating it.
But not having any milk in the house
probably had some bearing on the matter.