The following poem describes an event I have experienced fairly frequently ever since I moved into the house where I'm staying this summer. It is a tragic event, even more painful because of its frequency, and I hope that, through this poem, you will be able to understand some measure of my pain.
Morning
I roll over
And I see it
There it is
Mocking me
Waiting
Winking with that little red eye
The one next to the word:
Alarm
Numbers lit in green
Shift on schedule like a traffic light
Methodically keeping order
Keeping me in place
But right now
That place is bed
At least for a few more minutes
Or so the numbers tell me
In their own strange language
So why am I awake?
Why?
I wish I knew the answer
Perhaps it's a trick of the sun
Throwing its joy across my face
The sun is always so eager to bring me joy
Especially these summer months
Maybe my body is the traitor
Driven to wake
By some internal schedule
Known only to itself
Whatever the reason
I'm rolling back over
Clinging to night for just a little while longer
Just a little while
But I know
I know full well
That eye is watching me still
Glaring
Waiting
To call me from my dreams
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