by Vincent R. Pozon
The groan is the sound effect of the body
bidden to do a little more, it punctuates
the call to stir to fully awake
earlier than it is accustomed to, before
the time the sun throws a ray across your face.
We must beg the body to stir bit by bit,
to first check the dream if it is dream, and then
wake it by grunts and nudges, rub eyes,
flex a cramped toe, stretch, yes, practice living.
Is the jiggling of the foot a slow dip
into the unfriendly air of time on earth?
Waking up must be allowed ample time,
for the body is animated by inch, limb, eyelid,
always remember that the legs are laggards
in surfacing from the opium of pillows,
the mind is last, always uncertain
of his whereabouts, sometimes preferring
to slip back into sleep, wavering
between a life of ease and life itself.
To bestir before becoming sober
is cause of the slip in the bathroom,
that bane of the abandoned and elderly,
that accelerator of inutility.
I bolted out of bed crawled toward coffee.
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