After waking on the couch:

The sky above the back yard is a touch off Cobalt Blue
And the shade that’s reflected in the windows
Of the terraces opposite
Are more a touch of Crimean
I sit, smoking, the top half of the back door open
3.32 am, ah well
We have failed in yesterday’s dreams and good intentions
Failed to bring about peace, to feed and clothe everybody
Failed to give the Head Honcho job to someone who doesn’t want it;
Because anyone who does clearly shouldn’t have the job;
Failed to get the gig, to set the bar alight
To spread the flames up our arms and go out in defiance
Failed to get milk before the garage closed, failed to develop a pallette for black coffee.
Failed to close the Gulag, to protect the wives of drunken husbands
Failed to expand their vocabularies, too;
Failed to illustrate the difference between their, they’re, and there adequately
To teach the importance of having something to say before you pick your instrument up
Where are the heroes? Are they licking their wounds and waiting for a sign?
If they are, we’ve failed to tip the signalman.
We have failed to look both ways before crossing the street
To send the money where it’s needed
To put the bins out on the correct morning.
The air is fresh and cold before the sun comes up
Here comes tomorrow, on her hands and knees.