Woke up grateful
Thinking of Vitas Gerulaitis
And with memories
Of stirring at three
With no thoughts front of house
But a dry headache
And the smell of paint fumes
I slipped back into sleep
Acknowledging that if this was slow poison
I might well not wake up again.
This observation was no more
To that head than seeing
A bird fly by a closed window
Which seems about the right scale
In every respect except my own.