Aubade by Paul Hostovsky

The sun is raising its hand.
It's practically levitating in its seat,
reaching its fingers up as high as they will go,
spreading them, wiggling them, stretching
and straining its toes and kicking out its feet,
exploding with oh, oh, oh, I know, I know, I know.
It's dying the sun is simply dying to get the earth's
attention. But the earth turns an infinitely
patient, sardonically tilted, patronizing
eye toward the sun, and the birds juke and jeer
and the trees bend over backwards with
laughter. And what can the people do
but get up, urinate, roll their eyes and yawn
at the sun's same old wrong answer.

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