Dear Sir or Madam,

I would like to protest the morning. I am smoking too many cigarettes. (cough, cough-spit.) There is sleep in my eyes and I would like it to go away. Rubbing only agitates. The morning is for the birds. I feel like I could vomit pancakes all over a waffle house of ill repute. Surely you understand there’s no need for the morning. A day is hard work enough. I have heard about a great haiku master who composes at dawn. His writing isn’t worth a damn, I don’t even think he had a coffee yet. While I’m well aware that I compose this in the am hours it is only to show you the inherit madness of this morning. The wind blows. It really does this morning and I certainly have no desire to go out into it and start living. Like I said, it blows. The morning is killing me. It fools me with hope—the whole light through the blinds thing, when I awake. A farce really, because you know as well as I do there’s nothing out there but another hangover and I didn’t even drink last night. I’m going back to bed now please don’t bother me tomorrow with waking up.

Yours,
Daniel J. Flore III

P.S.
I find my anxiety level to be very high upon waking in the morning. If I get a note from my doctor, will you then cease and desist? You bastard, you probably aren’t even listening, you’re probably at Starbucks.

Image CreditBig Dodzy

Daniel J. Flore III’s poems have appeared in many publications. His three poetry books are Lapping Water, Humbled Wise Men Christmas Haikus, and Home and other places I’ve yet to see.