(A morning ode to that goddamned clock radio
I should have incinerated in Middle School.)
Whose head this is I think I know.
I’m in the inside this time though;
The shifting shadows, shapes entwined
Of neurons firing to and fro.
A pleasant place, a dreamer’s mind,
More so than work or school you’ll find
(Far fewer forms to fax or write)—
Much more than grin and less than grind.
Twelve inches on the roads last night,
With lows – Now separate the white,
And whisk until – ‘Say what you choose:
To hang around, I gotta right!’
Alarm! Alarum! Jazz and blues!
Or else the weather, or the news,
Or recipes for marble cake;
I fumble, blind, and slam the snooze.
Enough of snow! Enough of cake!
For I have promises to break,
And miles to go before I wake,
And miles to go before I wake.