Blinds [it's Morning] Poem by Reginald Goodridge

Peeking through them
its only 5 or 6 hours
past midnights call
here is my sun, squeeking,
creeping through a dim sky
yawning am I, still slumbered
checking my cellular phone
text messages recieved, deleted
scratching this unkempt beard
but when did hair grow so quickly
that in just a day it was
a problem to face in mirror
no matter
the blinds knew
they explained the cycle
and the sun became the notice
for eyes to receive,
cells to charged
with this sloth wanting nothing more
than to reject my morning package
shut those damned blinds
and be slumbered, once again...