when the sun welcomes regret,
just right in the world of her,
that's the morning I call good
and self-aware for reminders.
each breath,
each brushing of the gums,
each can of club soda,
is a reason to reverse.
I hate smartphones,
but I don't know
what I'd do without one;
probably just live, right?
my sick confidence
turns to ill trepidation quick,
and if I am good
we can go anywhere.
this poem is lost on most,
because of inside jokes
and smoking popes,
but the only one that matters will get it.
if I am ill,
I don't want to be well,
because then the poems wouldn't arrive,
and I'd be left with a boring morning.