Eight A.M.
My thoughts are an unmade bed.
With a comforter thrown over
and a quick pass of the hand
to smooth wrinkles
in my disposition,
I smile.
Indeed,
the world does
smile back.
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Poetry, poetry, poetry! Did I say poetry? (by Matt Quinn)
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Eliot would approve of the modernist stream of consciousness in this poem.
I don’t even throw comforter over unmade bed. Will get to it right away.
You over-rate my brains.
Nice poem. Lovely a.m.-brain imagery!
the world might still smile were it to find your head disheveled by thought bedding too ..)
I always have a better night of dancing if I make my bed before I go out. Don’t know why.
I loved the first line of this especially, but the whole thing made me smile.
Thanks Karen. I need to organize my whole apartment, not just make the bed. Ain’t happening yet.
This made me smile 🙂