I Will Be Tired Tomorrow

I will rise, obedient to the alarm,
terrified of setting off late,
of seeing the minute hand leech past the hour,
wolfing down Rice Crispies, using
the hands of a mannequin, sellotaped
to my own, to choose clothes
that don't say 'coma' or 'crash'.
I will stub my toe, take
sixty seconds
to compute why
my bike's pedal,
caught
on the doorframe,
in all its tangibility
is the source
of my immobility.
I will swear, threaten to cry,
but not carry the five,
and end up sat, not knowing
I am sitting,
as the seconds twitch, boing
like fleas.
I will snap suddenly
into a lighter haze, frowning
at space, walking
on the moon,
out of the door,
into the traffic.