This morning
I’m trying to recall
just what was so pressing
as to get me up.
Nothing is coming to mind,
although there are
plenty of things
trying to drive me
back under the security
of my covers.
This morning
I am determined
to face today with a smile,
even if it occasionally
looks more like a grimace.
This morning
I realize exactly
what my parents meant
when they said,
“Someday you’ll understand
just what we go through.”
I understand that,
as a child,
wanting so desperately
to be grown-up,
I was lied to,
and now, all I want
is to be twelve again.
This morning
I understand that
dreams are not realities,
unless we make them so;
that forever sometimes isn’t;
that my parents knew
what I had,
even as I tried so hard
to get away from it;
that lamenting and reminiscing
are fine on the page,
but impractical in the world.
This morning
I know I am just
a poet and a writer,
with big dreams
that barely stand up
under the weight
of a gray and mediocre society.
I know that my bed
will still be there tonight,
my pillows still catch my tears,
and the sun will rise again tomorrow.
I know that
dreams are good,
but not enough.
I know it’s going
to be another long day,
and I’m almost awake.
And I know that
this morning
I need a cup of coffee.
In fact,
better make it two.