I cannot wake at four a.m.
I’d rather lose myself in longer dreams
that know to use their morning share.
The birds asleep, their silence fills the air.
It must have been the omelet,
a garish oozing yellow folded like a sheet,
that drove me to absurd dispair.
Or perhaps it was the waitress’s lack of care.
I bend myself to your direction
with no regrets, or few that I can think of.
Bending causes change; I must beware —
You would not like to wake and find a different lover there.
© Barbara Burt