13 July 2007 | Vol. 7, No. 2
you and mornings
You've never held so fine together—like knitting, or patchwork collages. And I wonder what it's like to be attached to a leopard attacking something very large—say wildebeest? Can they do that? Raking and clawing and noises and something that dies.
I look at my cat and ask her what she'd do if Jesus came into our lives collectively, like if he was bargaining for some major contract. She just stares at the wall, so I am a fool.
In the morning my face wears wrinkles. Pants face. Sleepy pants. Face of demonic possession and lack of caffeine. God then is the sound of the faucet, the coffee dripping.
I know your alarm sounds like it was made from a child's fire truck, I know it's regal and kingly sounds better, but, but that never stops it from being, or you from hitting it over and over and over and over.
About the author:
Tony Mancus works as an adjunct lecturer and part time editor. His poems have most recently appeared in Cream City Review, Diner, and Memorious.
For further reading:
See the complete list of work by Tony Mancus at 42opus. Browse the contents of 42opus Vol. 7, No. 2, where "you and mornings" ran on July 13, 2007. List other work with these same labels: poetry, prose poem.
