It's Six O'Clock In The Morning Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

It's six o'clock in the morning.
There is snow falling outside.

Inside my fingers are the weapons
I can fabricate to
control
nail polished plants.

Turn up and turn off the mobile
hating eyeball.
Crack up the volume on
the car radio
and
drink a slow, ketchup flavoured
powered drink.

It creates and recreates and flashes
for just a second.
What time is it again?
Oh yes, it is six o'clock and
the stocks and bonds
are becoming real again.

If I buy myself a package of pretension, might I not
use it to define my dinner plate?

Or is it too late to
flip up the coffee cup?
Touch up the
pickle jar.
Eat your food.
Drink your drink.

Must not leave the table
until you've asked to be
excused.
And
every rude gesture becomes
a different kind of world.

When it turns up to be 7 in the morning,
I'll pretend the A.M.
is just a
trick of time.