I have very little use for structure these days.
When the sun invites itself into my room and heralds morning,
I am overtaken by the persuasion to bury my head
In a world of fabric, thrust my posterior into the air
And block out the day, angry at the night for ever ending.
The voice of Stoicism pleads the juggle of pain for pleasure,
While the Epicurean within touts righteous indignation over the early birds
Who spring vertical at dawn, rod-like; round pegs fitting round, round holes —
My own little philosophical survey rattling around in my head.
So I reconcile the two, sipping Egyptian chamomile in a smart corduroy blazer
Selected carefully from the wardrobe on my bedroom floor,
And arrive first at the office because I slept there in my car the night before.
In what has become this juxtaposed lifestyle,
Raging through the night and skidding into morning,
I’ve found my place where the early birds get the worm,
But the night owl eats their young.