Waking to a sharp alarm,
I stagger, put my clothing on.
The only light shines from the clock,
an hour yet until the dawn.

I slip a lighter in my jeans
and cigarettes to help me rouse.
Water and a few saltines
are not a feast, but they will do
well enough; and furthermore, it allows
for simplified, austere routines
to commandeer my thoughts of you
and drive them down where they belong,
beneath the blankets on my bed.

I work and live for drink and song,
and at week's end I've earned my bread.
At present though, I look ahead --
the sun will rise at five fifteen,
the sun will rise and I will too.
I'll wash my hands of this, and you
scrubbed and soaked and scoured clean
with pumice soap and gasoline.

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