It’s 3AM

It’s 3AM
In the fucking
Mourning.

And my
Bastard soul,
Erased,
Wallows in
The stillbirth
Of its
Non-existence.

While I
Wryly grin,
Pleased with
My genius,
Much to
My dismay.

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Breakfast at 6am on a Monday Morning

My wife stood in the kitchen,
In her apricot dressing gown,
Backlit by the gentle morning light,
She regarded me
With pensive, sleepy eyes.

Her hair though uncombed,
was improbably sexy,
Somehow appearing styled
By the Mad Hatter himself
In a frisson of manic delight.

Suddenly,
For no good reason at all
She spontaneously broke out
Into a big beaming goofy grin
And I melted
Like the butter on my toast.

John Bowers © 2017