El Cocos Locos Poem by Alexander Hawkins

Morning demands different rules.

Life is a mess hidden by the patterns of public transport furnishings,
like confetti vomit or nauseating square spirals
speckled with gum, bile and worse… so much worse.

Itemising these wonders is work for us whacky folk, for whom decades
doodle on by whilst we're on the phone, twiddling with a helix-like phone cord.
Exasperated, I applaud. It's all become a bit too much.

Communication before understanding… oh, I don't understand the morning.