Good Morning Poem by Christopher Woodall
Good Morning
The persuasive bespoke oligarchs
Leer earnestly from the screen,
While drowning in their rabid barks
We dress as in a dream:
I draw the latest razor-blade
Softly over my throat,
You oil your face for the masquerade
Before holding up my coat
Open and empty as an animal skin
Or a robe held for a surgeon,
So I lean over and cut my way in
To the day whose end is uncertain
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4/19/2024 2:50:03 AM # 1.0.0.1119
