Most mornings I am an unused car
suddenly required. Brain hesitant,
legs sleep-rusted and stiff,
feet unable to negotiate the unlit
path between amputee toy soldiers
and the purring ball of a cat.
If not an unused car then the hinge
on my fathers shed door,
clouded in a shroud of cobwebs
like those first few minutes upon
waking, everything seen as a challenged
blur, as though never before attempted.
I am a child tackling the untamed
snake of shoe-laces, a child getting
to grips with the awkwardness of a fork.
These eyes are not happy
with their re-acquaintance with light
the ears resist their re-tuning,
from the cushioned chords of dream
to the staccato of a waking house.
But on mornings such as these
when just four hours earlier
you allowed me to remove
not just your bra but the tight-woven
worry of our child's cough
and guide my hand over your breasts;
between the deep-heat welcome
of your thighs,
I am neither unused car
nor garden shed hinge
but a dog let of its lead in a field
of knee-high grass,
a carrier bag waltzing above
the speeding haze of a motorway
I am weightless, ageless,
and for a while
Haplessly in love with you.
For the mornings you could do with a Wake-up Light. For the evenings it sounds like you have all you need. A good write.