Coffee

it calls for extra coffee
on those pale mornings
when my remnant dreams
still cling as shrouds
to another me
in some other world
and the cold grey sun
s – e – e – p – s
little shards of heaven
to prick my sleepless eyes
.
I’m as tired as an old joke
told in a funeral home
I feel like a dirty burlap sack
full of ossuary bones
I’m the prolapsed organ
they dare not resuscitate
and quite symptomatic
of a broader demographic
of disenchanted and careless
mercenary vagabonds