Imagining Monroe Each Monday Morning Poem by Not Long Left

Eyes are opened by the sound
of a childs inpatient cry
Feet meet slowed bloodflow
moving themselves into action.
Hands wrap around warm tender skin
little lungs ease and rest.

A severing of the lands above
heats the frozen street
releasing trapped litter caught
in the prisons of ice
the dead breath it on.

Body aches for its chemicals
senses awake as coffee granules
dissolve then involve our every thought.
Lungs explode as a mushroom plume
of smoke saturates the room.

Teeth are destained and for a while
a Hollywood smile spreads itself
across the mirror
yet there is no Monroe
on the other side of the wall
routine maybe the destoyer of imagination
yet routine is needed to imagine
what If