Marred

This headache of a morning
is split wide open with birdsong,
such yipping and piping
and shrill whistling from the lawn, 
the cardinal gloats in the elm’s top
and drives his sharp treble
like a nail into my eardrums.
And the sun bursts unannounced
into my bedroom, squats on the floor
in a yellow uniform and stares
at my eyes until they hurt.
Show me a door I can back out of
in my sullen clothes and come back in
dressed as I should be to delight
my wife’s eyes this summer morning.