Breakfast with Stanley Harbor

I wake up to the shine of bare walls washed white with bleach,
I rise from my creaky bed, brush the cobwebs and silverfish from my head
And shuffle sideways to my desk.

I push a finger to my eye, concentrate, and apply pressure;
The congealing creative juices come forth, once captive in my cranial cavern.
My mind is filled with pencil shavings, eraser debris, and vinegar,
I let it drip into my notebook: loose-leaf pages made from
The bones of transients and plagiarists.