then jerking awake

every blood brain skin cell

prickling; that sensation

deep in the root of your spine

of being pulled forward

towards a loss, a scent of a memory

that fades with the mornings

abrupt light.

copyright 2005

work days

by Lisa LaTourette

sometimes when I wake up,

open my eyes to the red numbers

on my alarm clock,

brash & ignorant, boldly flashing

its illiterate sensibilities

I calculate how many hours minutes

Ive got

until I have to drag myself

from the warm hole of my blankets;

(sheets smell satisfyingly

like dirty hair & body heat &

cats curled bodies around my legs)

something in me rebels

at the thought of myself

in the shower, in my car

chain-smoking on the drive to work

shocking my body with caffeine

& nicotine, preparing to

leave my various sloppy realities

behind me with practiced warm smiles

& soulless enthusiasm;

my work-self has short-circuited

& my real-self picks up the phone

to call in sick while my soul

looks on proudly,

the minutes & hours stretch empty,

the sun climbs over the horizon

& I have no thoughts about it,

content to let the day revert back

to me, humming

with its possibilities.