I would not wake up to a thousand blue jays chirping into
my window
With their wings flapping and beaks
tapping,
pecking at my last nerve.
I would not wake to the sun screaming
at me,
burning the skin that
portrays me.
If I looked out past the glass, I’d
see the green of the moss tucked between the pavement
It sleeps the way I wish to.
And the garbage trucks,
who shake the floor army ants
march on
Would not wake me to see the new day
And if I opened an eye and didn’t see what there was to live for,
then my window would shatter and
the birds would lift me by their claws and
show me what it’s like to fly
And I would soar over mountain tops, but
only wonder
what it would be like to fall into the forming avalanche below.
As I fall
my head smashes into my pillow
and I would lay there until
pots and pans are struck together,
yet I haven’t heard anyone telling me to wake up.