Breakfast

By brute, dray-horse force
(turned earth and dust-devils
in their wide wake left)
did Sleep’s sweat-sleek dream steeds
draw dishevelled Charlie
from bundled/bereft bed
into the wracked,
foul-winded world-
eloped eternally, verily wed
to high/holy Dreamsong visions
still miraculously intact.

With plow-horse power,
raucous, rampant,
with full-flared nostrils
did they froth-mouthed haul
our once-wastrel, tough-tyke,
half-wit, half-waked, hope-doped bloke
into the blown-out blue and
dew-draped frissons of magic morn
while sunrays rent the sea-mists
and the world’s warped width
welcomed seers and saps alike.

To be, again, this way born,
(from Sleep-depths thrust up)
into such a morn,
now stumbled-bummed
into the dingy diner,
by the day’s start still
silly, startled/shocked a little,
grateful Chuck ordered Belgian waffles
almost ashed into his coffee cup,
and built an igloo facsimile
with sugar-cubes and spittle.