I poured a better mood
And washed the wreck of
My bird pecked face, laving deeply
Enough to scrape star lit whiskers away.
Taking a tumbler full
Of stronger stuff from its bottle
I set to make a mention of my day,
Though nothing untoward had braved it.
Still there was a duty
To the future, to be cute about
The past, or maybe spit to be spat
At a particular part of it worth the matter.
I sat in a non sequined
Garment unable to find one
Good answer for the page’s rancor,
Though what caused its anger I don’t know:
I had done my dance
For the day, medicated my
Rage with enough cynicism to kiss
It better and whetted a protestor’s appetite,
But still inspiration
Failed my quill, and as the
Deadline of night fast approached
I had to use notes I’d taken yesterday instead.