Poem (The Day Gets Slowly Started)
–James Schuyler

The day gets slowly started.

A rap at the bedroom door,

bitter coffee, hot cereal, juice

the color of sun which

isn’t out this morning. A

cool shower, a shave, soothing

Noxzema for razor burn. A bed

is made. The paper doesn’t come

until twelve or one. A gray shine

out the windows. “No one

leaves the building until

those scissors are returned.”

It’s that kind of a place.

Nonetheless, I’ve seen worse.

The worried gray is melting

into sunlight. I wish I’d

brought my book of enlightening

literary essays. I wish it

were lunch time. I wish I had

an appetite. The day agrees

with me better than it did, or,

better, I agree with it. I’ll

slide down a sunslip yet, this

crass September morning.

 

Photo by Bastian Pudill on Unsplash