Morning is bloody.
Thrown up on the rocky shore
of a new day.
Locked behind cracked eyelids
Buried in a body, trying hard to stay asleep.

Morning is broken.
Not like the song. Not like any song
I recognise, not even a Leonard song.
A regular morning meeting
with my still beating heart.

Morning is a shock.
Everyday. Even though I know
its coming.
Even though I sleep
in the brace position.

Morning is a borderline.
A shoreline, a frontline,
in my little reality show.
Luckily, no one is watching
except a small black cat.

Morning is a battle cry.
A call to arms – a call to heart
Sometimes, I rise to the occasion.
Alternatively, it can take
a whole day to fail.

Morning grabs me, by both hands
Yanking me onto the dance floor
where I lumber about
like an embarrassing dad at a wedding
until I find my feet.