Wake on Sunday

By Allan Lake

Bird feels compelled to exclaim
as first light infiltrates bedroom.
I file comment with lines of pop songs, 
trivia of less value because Ma Nature 
assigned me a restless catch-all brain.

Eye open, mind fumbles between 
two or more channels, one being 
a variation of that dream about 
us never going wherever it was 
we were aching to go. Death 
didn't drop in so it's all on again, 
chance to draw breath and conclusions.
Where there's still a will. Sentient being, 
who needs to empty and refill, 
flips back blanket before landing 
in fluffy prepositioned slippers. 
Goldfish accelerate as shape shuffles 
past to perform rituals beyond them.

First the waterfall then teeth brushed 
systematically with hint of mint 
before tap water with lemon. 
Human  –  one of billions  –  
primed for inaction turns dumb 
TV on to news: 

Egg boils, bread burns, machine 
makes coffee day after day in well-
worn way. Then mid-morning 
circle ’round park on warming planet 
which orbits a ball of burning gases 
that will eventually arrive at its own 
little conclusion, unwitnessed 
on no particular Sunday.

Originally from Saskatchewan, Allan Lake has lived in Vancouver, Cape Breton, Ibiza, Tasmania & Melbourne. His poetry collection is titled Sand in the Sole (Xlibris, 2014). Lake won Lost Tower Publications (UK) Comp 2017 & Melbourne Spoken Word Poetry Fest 2018 & publication in New Philosopher 2020. Last year he published his chapbook My Photos of Sicily (Ginninderra Press).

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