Born Each Morning

What a shocking way to enter the world,
whacked on the back by a stranger,
held up naked by the heels
in front of strange women,
inspected like some plucked chicken.
But each morning I feel the exposure
when I slide from the warm and cozy
amniotic atmosphere of the bed
where all night I floated in a
suspension of sleep. Now like a yell
of beginning, the sharp glare of light,
the demand on arms and legs after night’s
languor, groping through morning chores
when all still seems obscure in
the cloudy terminals of night. What carrot
leads the poor donkey from his stall
each morning, the dim image in the mirror
that brays his protest for his rebirth each day.