The Dawn Chorus Mockery

The ceiling has a pattern of spray-on sand,

a landscape of peaks I’ve mapped out by hand

while the caffeine vibrates behind my eyes.

The headache is a slow, rhythmic prize.

Then the first robin starts its jagged, sharp trill

at four-twelve exactly, sitting on the sill.

It’s a frantic, loud noise for a world so gray,

insisting on starting a whole other day.

The light hits the sink where the plates are a heap,

crusted with sauces I didn't let sleep.

The bird won't shut up. It’s a riot of one,

screaming at the dust and the ghost of the sun.