Eel Hotel

mixing my morning coffee
with sexual tension. 
she hands me a straw. 

sometimes the day begins
like a Marcus Foster song,
smooth and soulful. 

a pep-in-your-step
type of deal,
wheeling wild and smiling.

the sun is nice,
and the air is cold,
no backs are against any walls.

maybe just maybe
I still have a few
tricks up my sleeve. 

maybe I will go back
to the Eel Hotel
and write happy poems.

something about magnificence
and morning girls,
and electric toothbrushes. 

thumb tack this,
save it in the back,
just in case of an afternoon attack of the blues.