staring out through one black eye
at the blurry stranger lying over me;
in morning’s mourning (at least I think)
feeling the ache of defeat (and the sting of
life moving on).

some wordless tune from distant,
tinny speakers of a radio float through the
whispering curtains (or maybe just
the ringing of my ears) with beams
of dawn.

every morning the same; enough to drive
someone mad
and yet
so frustratingly unfamiliar (a map would
be nice) to both the onrushing day
and the still stranger beside me.