The Morning After
Are always the first thing to go missing,
Hiding under the bed,
Or tossed into some far corner.
He usually will get up first,
To make coffee, or go to the bathroom,
That is, if you aren’t ashamed enough
To have snuck out during the early dawn light
You will have roughly 15 minutes
To regain some semblance of the well-pressed self-control
You had the night before,
Sans brush, and sans mirror.
His roommates will be moving noisily around,
With no clue or no care
That you might still be there.
They talk about eggs as you try to find all your rings,
Loose, like how you’re feeling about your morals.
You hold your forehead,
Sneaking glances at him in Ray Bans and a Sox hat,
From in between your fingers
As he drives you home.
You wonder if he’ll call again.
- A poem from last semester’s Reading and Writing Poetry class in response to overly sappy and loving waking-up-and-looking-at-the-love-of-your-life aubades. The college equivalent.