The wrong side of the bed.

In the morning, the bed spits you out,
at breakfast, the kettle bristles at you,
the dough refuses to rise to the occasion,
yeasts play dead, the sun hides.
I am a kettle pleaser, bed pleaser,
so on, so forth …
I make the bed or make up with perhaps,
polish the kettle until it gleams at me,
I tango with the dough,
slow-slow-quick-quick-slow.
I feed the starter, watch babies bud, blossom,
Is there another way to look at this?
How does one coax out
the independent sun;
If not for Coulomb’s wise counsel,
what fascination holds a deathly damp?

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