Guilty

Woken by the smallest monster, 
to a street choked in a bus' cough, 
i kick over remnants of doof in the gutter and hoof it to the train, 
late, 
hair splayed in many directions, 
shoes that are covered in bleach, and dancing
the scent of 200 hippies tickling my toes
but i'm happy.
The kind of happy that knows my Goddess is cheering,
where morning nooks and crannies in sleep-filled beds
are busy napping,
where the little monster sees me upside down and cackles,
wrestling a banana in his talon,
much like I wrestle my bag on,
blow a kiss to my dreaming self and
wish for a wealth more of this madness.
What a happy mess this life has become,
and i'm guilty, fingers covered in paint