The Same Morning

The Same Morning

It always begins

with the end of a dream

I've never had

I lay on my back

perched like an extinct bird

flapping the lids of my eyes

just fast enough

to rise above the jungle

of sheets and pillows

I am no longer pretty

in my orange breechcloth

which I straighten

before standing to grab

the handles of the walker

that steadies me

for the travels through light

I mutter simple prayers

of gratitude and hope

I know I will die

It is this knowledge of death

that replaces the foolish youth

that sometimes returns

inside me

someone willing to make

the same mistakes

I gave up years ago

I move through the tight spaces

that limit my trek

around this simple house

Will the particle board

furniture finally sprout a tree

Will the radio announcers

stop in their scripts

to take a moment to hold my hand

All things are possible

when the sun speaks

to the one plant I nurture

I spread myself upon the couch

a weird potentate

searching for a t-shirt

the only wealth I seek

to give me comfort

Through the veils

that cover my windows

others are known to me

by the sounds of their automobiles

or the barking of their dogs

People should bark

their morning greetings

to the world

It would change the sameness

of intractable hours

that silently begin

in a yawn or a stretch

Behold

I yelp my greeting

I sniff at the world's butt

hoping I won't get dragged away

by the leash that binds me to heaven

Barry G. Wick