Ode to Cortisol

If you shudder,
without further ado,
at the first sight of dew,
the premise is set.

I did…
This morning at 3.

I kept aside those
good morning sensibilities,
murmured to the wall,
while in angst, the words flowed.

They flowed…
This morning at 3.

This is the flawed poem
that was born when I,
tired and droopy,
tried to mop up the dew.

I mopped…
This morning at 3.

With insolence, I wiped
the drops off the petals of a
weary, two-day-old flower,
and dared to call it editing!

I dared…
This morning at 3.

-- Leslie

(Poem: I am but a janitor at 3 am, and with my mop, I wipe dew and scribble poetry.)