It’s time to shake this body from these sheets and onto the floor,
Time to have it yawn less, showered, dressed, and run out the door;
Wait! Maybe it’s Sunday and a body can just lay here . . . Yes
a day of weightlessness, countered only by a warm blanket of down.
Look! What a fowl thing shows me the digits of time, and dashes my hope with proof?
It shows this the second of thirty-one days that launch the year’s resolute phase. And it
determines today, not a Sunday but a Friday in a common era that feeds hungrily on youth.
Impossible! Do not suggest this an uncommon gift granted by a loving hand, and that
I should be grateful, for once allotted, I am able to earn and taste my daily bread.
Leave such gifts for Marley, who last month sought to enlighten friend Scrooge.
No, I should say, better to forward me a vast unending fortune. But I know well
I cannot be unbound from the punch clock, I, my parents’ failures and final hope;
I, whom their spirits push through another day to grasp at glass ceilings
in pumps gleaming as if in competition with my defiant legacy of curls.
Last year wanted not only biological, financial and domestic success,
yet, still, time continues, offering no recompense but to try again. No!
Let the clock’s hands freeze, and I skip off to a lush Neverland reprieve.
There, under a green canopy with Toucan, I shall lay to dream, dream, dream.
All right, advance, time. I cannot stop you, but what’s the use?
Can you possibly lift a dreamer dancer above everyday bars?
Can you place her among the raven heaven’s boldest stars?
Up, up, eh?
Fine! We will up and see what you do then.