By morning's light, my new-born brain's athrob
With truth's half-lie and lying words half-truth.
To sort them out becomes the day's first job
Lest they slip back unasked to sleep's dark booth.
They answer not, they vaporize as dew
Retreats before the sun's advance and day's
Old shopworn cares their worn demands renew
'Til numb, my brain for sleep devoutly prays.
Close-order, precision sub-brain drill teams
March like maggots through mildewed perceptions
And gnaw soft flesh down from new-killed daydreams
To bone-hard immaculate conceptions.
If I just knew which bones to keep or toss
The world's acclaim would cover me, like moss.
Dean Z. Douthat is a retired engineer residing in a senior living facility in Ann Arbor, Michigan