If Morning Had

I was as good as then,
And weary of these a.m.'s.

The first break of bright across
The street trotting east.
A morning. Another.
A way to wake and feel
The candles in your feet
Are burned out burned.
That means the light, too,
In your hips is dim.

And though she's only a whisper
On your arm,
She is tired.

The dogs are in their nightclothes.
Apparitions are back in the wall.

This, with sleep in its
Bruisy eyes,
Is the sockdolager
Of your life?
This doppelganger,
Shaped like a sack of change,
Is your life?

May as well go back to bed
Before the guilty voices wake
And rattle the trees outside
This drowsy boarding house.