losing dreams again

The morning creeps along,
waiting for the coffee
to brew,
waiting for the first sip
to kick in
and make everything
all right again.
Waiting patiently for
that first shit,
and the inevitable
shower to follow.
Waiting for the water
to get hot enough to
step in and rinse away
the sleepy,
dreamless night.
So many mornings,
all of them the same.
Waiting for the poem to come.
And when that one's done,
the next will surely follow
to bring sanity to drooping
eyes that are bathed in steam
from a shower that has gone
too hot.
And the muscles relax-
the tension subsides,
the glass walls widen
for the freedom of the day
to be taken away by work
and effort for the dirt to
accumulate again
to be washed in the
light of dusk to sleep and
suffer another night,
waiting for it all to begin again
in the creeping morning of
lost dreams.