Break Wake Routine

by Allen Fowler

Each day a question stumps us from the rich dark drama of night,
what to eat mostly, what package to wear.
Our constant doing much dispels the dearth of real choice,
until the next meal, more sleep, and the charade of dreams.

We wake to a sharper disjunction, the split-screen bird’s-eye bead of it,
two views as if one, a bi-flattening,
us cocking our heads hoping to get at the cunning of what we  think.

Pop’s cataracts sent his head tilting
to catch us in mischief clear enough to scold.
We were unrepentant in ignoring
his gruff pleas barked from the same chair
we mocked and avoided because of its stains.

wake staked up straight no
matter sun