a poem before breakfast...

I wish I could write the poem I woke up with,
the one that heard the pneumatic drilling
and didn't care they were digging up
the road again - but that time has past,
the time between laying these words
down on a page, to the now of drawing
the sliding doors closed on the balcony,
lessoning the impact of metal on tarmac
on a much irritated brain.

The children played louder in the kinder garden,
imagined in colour as background to my waking voice:
Jake, with a blue bucket on his head,
Annabelle twirling in her pink chequered dress,
while the poem on vanity, love, and grace, slipped
over into an abyss of daylight.

To remember its flavour is little comfort
as the drilling comes through the glass.
Instead my teeth complain of the dentist,
my furrowed brow upset that the poem is lost,
my mouth annoyed that I have run out of water
to break the fast with a coffee - and the cost
is writing this poor second hand copy
before I dress and head for the bakery,
my feet taking me further away from the poem
that said what I wanted to say about love
and compassion; finding a little more peace
the other side of her face, and a little more
killer, the other side of mine.