Michael Flanagan

awake you want to start a dream, but—

you stretch and climb out
of bed, downstairs you stare
out the kitchen window, you
eat 2 strawberries, when the
neighbors come out of their
house you turn away, the
cat rubs against your leg, it
might be love but no, his
bowl is empty, all he wants
is to remind you of his needs,
searching the night and the
morning, you realize you've
slept 9 hours, you're tempted
to go back to bed anyway,
maybe sleep 3 solid days in
a row, would that be such a
crime? instead, you shower
and dress, put on shoes and
a coat, enter the slow turning
of participation, where minutes
fade into routine, and make
the hours disappear

daughter

when i'm dead
she'll weep at
small moments,
remember little
idiosyncrasies i
was never aware
of, none of the
harder truths
will survive,
nostalgia,
newly born,
will change
me into some-
thing worth
clinging to,
shaping an
imperfect
man into
a dream

about the author

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