Though waking up often is a difficult task,
the heaviness and blissfully blank way
my mind lays out limp in all directions
is so much appreciated that I do wish
I could go on waking up forever and
never make it through the front doorway.
I sit at the kitchen table, hands splayed,
praying that my cereal bowl, object of my attention
will wipe away all the thoughts creeping
and cooing along my worn-out synapses –
if I think of nothing but soggy oat flakes
then maybe I will forget all the tension
that sticks between each notch in my back,
making me slump forward and carefully take
a spoonful of breakfast that I slowly chew
for when I am finished there's the next step –
put on my jacket and turned toward the door.
I want the waking, but not the being awake.
