Sleep until ten,
don't grab breakfast,
ignore the grumble in my stomach.
Upstairs I kiss mom on the cheek
and say, "Good morning, Starshine!"
We laugh and then pull away,
her to cleaning,
and I to my seafoam dungeon.
Get dressed before I start? Forget it,
I work in my pajamas. No one cares.
Check emails, but don't answer them,
never answer emails in the morning.
Move to the next thing and read some literature,
not old, not new, but undeniably quality.
Half-way through at twelve, mom calls me
to get the garbage. As I stroll up the drive
in my fuzzy leopard print Liz Claibornes,
I hum a song I don't remember the name to.
I heard it a few weeks ago, and only once.
Why do I remember that instead of my history notes?
Stupid selective memory.
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