In more-tired moments than this, I hear "Good morning" and flash on a time at a summer camp (in the middle of Virginia, 1987) when one of the camp-runners said to the group "Good morning!" and another guy in the camp yelled "What's good about it?" Sometimes -- only occasionally, thank goodness -- I feel like saying that.
Though I'm not awake enough to be sure it's a good morning or not.
In the meantime, I wanted to link you to an entry I'm proud of from yesterday, about being a poet. And showing it. Because I'm knowing it.