day 27: i watched a sunrise

morning people
by Charles Bukowski*

some days I don't have it in me.
these days I find myself awake 
at the forgotten hours 
smoking on the patio
watching the city wake softly
as she burns scrambled eggs 
in the next room.

"don't you own a coffee grinder," she says.
"who the fuck has coffee
but nothing to grind it with."

i ash my cigarette
and the cherry falls,
i watch it dig its way
into the tip of my canvas shoe.
it leaves a brown hole,
perfectly round.

"there's a hammer in the drawer," i say. 

anyone else would have gone
to the coffee shop,
it is only a short walk 
down the street.
but she thinks she looks good
in her short red dress
black makeup around her eyes
last night's lipstick
a slap of crimson
on her cheek.

"like this," she says,
holding the hammer above her head,
waiting for me to watch,
and she whacks the bag
with the ten-pound silver head.

the pop goes off like a gunshot.
coffee beans scatter the floor
like fat raindrops.

"you're a fucking idiot," she says.
"i'm going back to bed."

*Not really. I decided to write a poem in the style of Bukowski in lieu of simply bitching about how much I hate mornings, and how getting up any earlier than 8 a.m. feels like the worst kind of punishment, and how I would've gone to a better location than my porch to watch the sunrise (it faces east, dammit, so I figured it would work, but it turns out there are trees in the way), but sincerely felt it was too early to wear pants or a bra.

Had it been the sunset, though, I would've been all up ons, because that fucker can put on a show. I've watched it work its magic here in KC, in the Colorado Rockies, overlooking the Columbia River in Oregon, and most recently while speeding through the Badlands of South Dakota, pictured below: