Portrait of a Morning

The faucet woke up angry,
vomiting auburn sludge
across the pearl basin
and down the sterling drain.

The rotten cusps curled up
the concave walls of white
as the garbage surge dimpled the pool,
pushing the settling edges higher.

I stood and stared disappointed
into the sink. The crushing morning
bled in my eyes, my distant
face hollow but solid in the mirror.

The burnt rubber of my mouth
would overpower the sulfur
or perhaps copper tinges in
the browning dirty water;

I welded my eyes shut with
the remaining crusts of sleep
before I dragged the brush along
my teeth, cleaner from the grit.

Spitting into the sewer was relief
And I killed the flow to help end
the smell that had begun attacking
what was left to enjoy of the morning.

I staggered to a closet
to rummage through wrinkled ghost
reminders of late nights.
I wouldn't take the chance of a shower.