Dead man lying on the bed
in the morning,
dead man lying on the bed
half-asleep.
Rest doesn’t mean too much
for the weary;
sometimes struggle lies
in every measure of time ahead.
Countenance comes at a cost,
the clock a ticking meter
adding toleration to the tank;
habituates hooked on routine’s
stinging syringe,
undead shuffling through the mall
howling at their kids,
drains the tank dry,
no water in the well;
if you’re not mind-full
you’re mind-less.
So the body becomes too troubled
by the day ahead,
corpse pose comes before waking;
it’s sometimes best to stay in bed.
Published in Panache: A Journal of Poetry and Fiction, Vol. 1, Issue 1, 2010
Published in Collected Poems, 2016
©2010, Dan Schell, Flex Your Head Books