The light apparently

is unaware the weekend has begun,

its bright insistence

inappropriate for a Saturday morning.

The shine has sent a wakeup call

direct from blazing sun

to the dust motes

that roam about your bedroom,

when all you wanted

is another hour, maybe two,

of deep drowning sleep.

But the room's not on your side.

Shadows fall into line. 

Walls open up their details. 

All this luster can't abide 

one ongoing lump of darkness - you.

So you rub the night's accretion

from your eyes,

cough and sneeze,

put the toxins in your breath on notice,

begin to move your body

into what the world has made available.

Half-yawn, half breast-stroke,

you plow through the hour's liquid brilliance,

that weightless lake

of many shades of white,

to the bathroom

on the far black and white tiled bank.

The light took everything away from you. 

And now it offers replacements: 

a mirror, a toothbrush, a comb. 

Take them, it says. Take them.