I wake up. Gentle guitar, sweet voices of three women
in harmony…what is the point of listening
to this on this morning when my own voice
is raspy and leather-skinned, when
my own thought is so roughened by the night
that I am scared to sing of anything, even
my own shadow? Do I try to fall into
them, do I let my life rise into theirs?

I wake up. It is a long weekend
for some, an average weekend for me.
For some, it’s not a weekend at all —
they work through the three-day stretch
and it’s barely a change.
They long to sleep.

I wake up with them, thinking about going back
to sleep: how peaceful
the long sleep of death might be, if anyone
had come back to tell of it; the tales we tell
mean nothing except falsehoods, maybe,
of heaven, of hell.

Or maybe — there is nothing?
Who knows,
and who tells the truth
about knowing?

I wake up, finally, and decide to stay awake
at least long enough to find out, finally.
No one will come around, anyway; even if
I come to and sit up someone will deny it.

So I stay awake long enough to set it down
on paper; a lie or the truth — it doesn’t matter.
The roses will still burn, the tinder will still
not ignite. I’ll sigh the last sigh.

I will go into the mystery;
sweet song and gentle voices
behind me, my agitation will be
finally, at last, gone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T