Ars Poetica I

A poem is:

            My foggy head,

            the struggle in

            the morning to get out of

            bed,

            wrinkled sheets and

            greasy bowls,

            the milky film that could turn into mold,

           

the cloudless sky,

            the burning sunlight

in my eye,

            the smell of bleach

            and soapy bowls
            the water that has banished the suspicious mold.