Friday mornings are my favourite:
Sequestered under heated coverlings
Room darkened beneath my squinched lids,
The last remnants of my subconscious
Rebelling against full-on awakening,
Pulling me back into that last dream...
What was it about? Where was I?
I want to go back in!
I allow the bright light into my bedroom
With the slit of one eye,
Then the other.
Ah, glorious sun, even you can't force my rise!
I can lie here as long as I wish
(or until my bladder screams).
I can have as many cups of chai as I desire,
With extra honey!
Read what I will,
Write, create, all in my purple jammies;
The fuzzy, warm ones with little white bows
And juvenile polka-dots.
The squirrels chitter: "Get Up!"
Far-away trains sound their long alto: "Time!"
It's after 8:30
Even the sound of traffic is sleeping in.
My Friday mornings are free,
And I refuse to wash my face until noon,
(She cries defiantly!)
Another hour of reading,
Then perhaps I'll greet the day upright.
But for now, time for the second cup.