On a bacon-scented sidewalk,
an hour before the dawn,
awaiting the man with a key
as I make a dazed yawn.

I've a vaguely swimming headache,
and thoughts that fail to form.
Will we have a crisp, red sunrise,
and would it mean a storm?

I'd remembered an old saying
of red sky morning dread,
but that's for sailors out at sea
not landsmen missing bed.