The rooster crows.
It’s 10 a.m.
Slacker. Just like me. No.
Better than me.
Remember that too-true-for-tears passage
where our beloved Paul D
walks across his isthmus of shame
to the wild and holding foliage of another?
(he tells her)
It was the rooster named Mister.
The beat for survival had sheltered Paul D from himself,
had dimmed enough the iron bit’s hacking at his humanity.
Mister’s sovereign grin shone away the salve.
Relativity entered side by side with recognition—
lowest.
It’s 10 a.m.
and I’m still in bed.
Worse than Mister, I spit on Paul D’s reality—
I could remove these chains.
That tardy cock is better than me.