Crows and Sinners

In the ripeness of another morning
uppity, belligerent crows wake up sinners.
Bleary-eyed, sweaty, loved-up, sleepy-heads
spooning-lying in crumple-sheeted sweaty beds,
stuck to the warm side of the pillow.

In the half-warmth of morning
flustered by the uppity cawing crows
brains flutter as half-thoughts stutter
and half-awake fingers press snooze
as pillows are turned to the cool side.

I sleep too much. Snug and blissfully inert.
An intelligent man, seduced by inertia,
as worlds collide around me and wars bloody-kill;
neighbours hoover and gossip through
paper-thin walls and I will sleep until

driven by hunger, whisky-thirst and
a bladder fit to burst, arising astumble to greet
the new day (carelessly tousle-haired and grumpy)
an intelligent man in striped jim jams,
armed with black coffee and a strong cigarette.

In my dreamful, wishful, morning mind
I throw carefully chosen stones at the crows
and they cease their squawkish cawing,
retreating into dark nooks and crannies
to nurse their wounds and plot their revenge.

Now awake, contrary, coffee-fuelled, reluctant,
an intelligent thinking man suited and booted:
ready to face the coarse vagaries of life, take
a step into another day of relentless unknowns,
take my place in the maelstrom of mundanity,

far from my bed and its warm pillows
and the caw of the uppity black crows.

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