The Wrong Day to be a Poet

Strange how the sun always rises,
palpates the curtains
for that special slit.
Then, jabs you in the eye
with the kris of morning.

Afterwards a dull ache
prevents concentration on paper.
Words drip from pen like coffee
from a broken mug.
There are never dishrags at hand.

Even paranoia sets in.
The monthly period poses as enemy --
this sabotage of rounds to the toilet
to check if something has been
scrawled in red on cotton drawers.

On such days, every attempt at poetry
clashes against high-tension fence.
A lovely time to be dead, you speculate,
get posthumous. Chances are
you're more likely to be just humus.

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