Some days the sun visits me
bent over a barren table
still shaking from a dream,
jabs me in the eye
before I hit the bottom
of a first cup.
I’d prefer the company
of odd colored, quiet clouds
willing to sit a while,
drowsy uncles in no hurry,
content to stir and sip
until I choose to nod back
at them from a newspaper
opened at no special page.
Nephew, they’d always say,
nothing to worry about,
nothing a’tall.