doesn’t each wakeup
become a cold naked birth
as you stumble like a child
putting your pants or socks on
start to wake up by breakfast
and with the last drop of coffee
feel old enough to fake maturity?
And in the comfort
of an evening at home
don’t the layers come back off
revealing the real you
that slips on the bathrobe
and later the blankets
to cover what’s left?
the smallness
the vulnerability
the great fatigue of pretense
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