Good Morning, Bright Eyes

I try to validate
my decrepitation
     my crapitation
on a clear morning
when my body is
a rummage sale
of twenty-five-cent smoke
and even cheaper ash.
Hemingway wrote in the mornings.
Marvell rubbed pubs to refresh his spirit.
I’m constantly writing
this research-paper life
and, like the lawyer I am,
throwing countless citations
into levees leaky with holes,
hoping something will stick.