early tortoise

he is slow to
he is slow to finish a thought
he barely moves
he barely moves his hands to his face
to rub the sleep out
his eyes are still bulging with a need to be closed
he barely moves his hands to his face to touch them
he
he is not sure
he is slow to finish
he thinks about going on with the day
he barely
he is slow to barely
he is not sure
he looks at the words and they begin to make sense
but only as if looking through a fog, a cloud
he barely moves his hands to his face, rubbing on his eyes,
pushing their bulging forms back into his skull
he closes his eyes, pinches the last items of sleep from them and stares
freshly through a clearing haze at the tasks ahead of him
the fog slowly lifts as the sun comes in and warms the
as the coffee comes in and warms his
time to begin