Saturday Morning Breakfast Existentia

Into a cloak of yellow-gray
Dawn was taken by the day,
her rosy tendrils probing clouds
until her embers petered out.


His clouded face in the perfect wake
of fires August tends and makes
seemed to survey the scorched land
from atop his magisterial stand.


This stranger-day, with judge’s eyes,
could see inside my waking mind,
and knew at once my misery,
suspended in soliloquy.


My burning-skillet stream of thought
was turning, spurred at every pop,
towards the cloak of yellow-gray
and the day above my windowpane.


Ghastly comfort! To realize he knew
every red-eared shame + desire blue —
whether or not his stay be kind,
to have a guest, to share my mind.


Can reflection save an errant soul?
Does it quench or stoke the coals
to rummage through your attic’s dark
and reconstruct a mind and heart?


The cloak that fell about the day
reached to me as if to say
that every introspective thought
threads a gold through charcoal cloth.