I see slumped
Over my dresser, a man-sized and man-shaped lump of clay.
And with morning-time’s virgin eyes,
I try to make sense of… what seems to be a crude, grotesque face.
I begin to sit up, as the figure lets itself roll from the low dresser,
And collapse to the floor, exhaling as it does
“And you are yet my maker…” posits the strange stranger.
I say in a groggy, deep voice, “I need time to menace my mind.
You don’t even have bones… We’ve got a lot to do.
And I have to get some mouthwash… actually, would you want some coffee?”
“I’ll drink, if you put on a pot, but you’ll have to hold up my neck, I have no spine…”
I moan, “That’s fine, stop whining… On second thought, I’ll have to find mine too.”
We both let our heads fall, this address was somehow necessary, today.