MORNING WOULD
She brings me toast, no plate, just hands,
And hums a tune from Sector Three.
She’s got my shirt, no underpants,
And says, “You dreamt out loud at me.”
Morning would, wouldn’t it?
Rise and shine with one small hit.
Sunlight slants through concrete cracks—
She’s curled up close, I can’t resist.
Morning would, wouldn’t it?
Coffee, grin, and tender grit.
A bunk this tight’s a compromise…
But somehow she still straddles sides.
She’s late for post. I don’t protest.
That uniform fits wrong today.
I say, “You missed a button, miss.”
She says, “That’s just the bunker way.”
I try to sit.
She takes my lap.
We talk of plans… but skip the map.
Morning would, wouldn’t it?
Mission brief, but not legit.
We’re built for war, but start with sin—
The world can wait, let pleasure win.
Morning’s got her scent and shade.
Morning’s got her sleep-streaked mood.
And even if we’re due to march—
I’d rather be subdued.
Morning would…