Waking Up (in Apartment 5C)

Waking Up (in Apartment 5C)

When I was a girl, my father would sit me on his knee
and he would say to me, “Emily, tell me all your dreams.
Because, you know, you can be anything you want to be.”
And I would tell him of the garden in my fantasies.
I was gonna plant rows of lilies, tulips, and daises.
I could hear the chirp of the birds and the buzz of the bees.

But then years piled around me as the trees shed their leaves:
my father died, and I dropped out of university.
Now my only garden is this apartment balcony,
where my sweet sound of birds chirping is the roar of the streets;
and my only botany is my boyfriend’s cheap skunk weed.
And he says to me, “Emily, you know dreams are just dreams.”

But I remember my Dad, some forgotten memory:
“Em, dreams will start rough, like a child crying in infancy.
But promise you’ll grow that garden, promise at least for me.”
So I buy a pack of seeds, and give that weed to the breeze.
I plant the seed so I might break loose, so I might break free;
I don’t want to keep waking up in apartment 5C.