A mess is usually simple

It's eight.
The window says the tomato bed
is easing awake, the cat claw,
bird eye, empty hammock,
woolen lawn.

I'm just a curl of skin, unraveling
in the bath, steaming
like brocolli. I get out,

but still a mess, like
rice, garbanzo, coffee beans
in one zip lock bag; waiting
for fingertips,
for piles.

It's nine.
So much apathy on the tongue;
what to do when it's all
brown? Browns just don't
jostle. Need garlic, curry,
chili powder to make a creole future.
Need waves of heat
on my tonsils, my words.

But I've got Soggy Eggos,
wrinkled linens. I've got sun,
sun like a child tugging
on my calves, warming
empty hair follicles,
sprouting buds.