how nice it must feel to just simply wake up refreshed
after umpteen years of innocent sleep
where you were blinded by passing headlights as you took the long way home
drunk off milkshakes and water bottles and german cologne
and you wake up fresh faced in wrinkled white sheets
and the neighbor lady’s wind chime is calling your name
and the sun shakes your hand and welcomes you in
and pours you a drink as the next dream begins
how nice it must be to just simply turn around
to run your hands over pictures of your past and smile
to wave at your decisions, laugh at your consequences
clean as summertime white picket fences
how nice it must be to breathe in a breeze instead of bleach
to admire the etches in your palms instead of hiding them with yellow rubber gloves
to spend what’s left of your young years free of regret
and not scrubbing a split second out of the carpet