Pearls

It is morning, someone says,
though I could tell that by myself.

My first thought is of the landscape
near the closest football stadium.

My second is of a scrap of paper.
Upon it these words: “your prime

is seven.” My next thought is of
an esoteric cabal of crushingly

huge men chanting prime numbers
as they thunder across the world,

because this early I’m primarily an engine
for cobbling together random things.

It is morning, someone says,
though it’s obvious to me.

My next thought is that I ought
to sit up in bed and see how I feel.

My first action is to sit up in bed
and see how I feel.  I’m still lightly

furred and a little clammy, drier
in some areas than others,

afraid of social media, angry without
cause, desperately in love.  

It is morning, I am saying it clearly now,
I am the new carrier of the disjointed day,

next up in the relay.  My first true action
upon others is coming soon.  It will be

angry or loving or based in fear — wait:
it will be angry and loving and based in fear.  

Don’t be afraid — it won’t be large.
It will not assume the guise of a linebacker.

It is morning, my leaping little thoughts cry.
Count to seven, push aside the covers.  Get up.

The world needs me.  People like me
are the sand grains outside the oyster:

we are many, we all have pearl potential,
some become random irritants, but most likely

we’ll just be the bed upon which
beauty happens, mostly without us.

It is morning, someone says. 
Get up, dreamer. Make yourself useful

or at least practical. Useful
will be a stretch at best.