As the fresh dawn light crawls into bed
with me before the alarm sounds, I often awaken
and examine my world before its day begins.
Low shadows outline the damage my legs committed
overnight. The pair of smooth ridges that rested
beneath the coverlet at lights-out have once again
been stirred into a landscape of blue-striped
earthquake and poly-fill landslide.
It was the thrashing of my breathless kicks
to the surface of semi-consciousness
from that dark-water drowning dream again.
It’s never the one I hope for when I
shut my eyes in punctuation of that day.
My right big toe quivers an aftershock
at the foot of the bed and I roll over,
close my eyes and bring the short respite
of darkness I’ll not see again until tonight.
Then I’ll smooth out my day’s lonely
forced march beneath my old damask plain,
douse the light on the nightstand
and stare into the solitary blackness,
waiting in that hopeless threadbare reverie
of hope for a different kind of seismic episode
I wish to dream, to remember, every night.
No forced march of a poem-a-day April anymore. Just a post-dawn, foggy-minded (and too damn long,) scribble I felt like doing before I cast aside the imaginary coverlet and begin a new day .