A bruised chin,
The mark of a errant kettle bell,
Makes resting my head
A tender moment.
I so want to lean on my hand
Copying the posture I see all day,
But my heavy head is not due to lectures,
It’s the utter darkness of the morning.
The sun must be in traffic
Unable to get across the ocean
Because there is not a cloud in the sky
And it’s as dark as midnight out there.
Cold will come,
The days will get longer.
By then, I hope the bruise is gone,
So I can really ease into morning.