The Morning Moment

When you wake up to those first

morning moments,

anything is possible.

The day has not begun,

and it is full of unmade promises.

Wrapped up in sheets of myself,

below a ceiling

as blank as my thinking,

I begin.

I think of the things I can do.

I can buy a ticket, a lottery ticket,

and win a life worth living.

I can write the story that is always there,

at my fingertips, where it stays,

waiting for the telling moment.

I could paint, badly as ever,

but ever so happily,

or draw the same way,

inept and in secret.

I could stand up and sing a song

of sick sense,

light some incense,

paint a wood fence,

make up nonsense

for myself.

I could find some kind

of love,

or hate,

to make

the living worth it.

I could do anything.

The day has just

begun.