They're both the same

I
think
when
I
was
drowsing
open eyed in your bed
watching
the
ceiling,
I
mistook
myself
for
a
poet or a fool,

what's the matter?

fuck it, Saturday morning
the
mailman can keep his stamps
on glossy paper and his cart,
because
either
way
I
was
right,
we're
the
same
god damn thing.

and
There's
no
reason
to get up