Waking
Waking
Mornings
A hand appears
To shake
Us awake.
The hand is ours.
It never sleeps.
It can’t
Allow itself to,
Like a woman
On a train
Whose child’s
Eyes have closed.
Most of us
Is the child.
The hand,
Always awake,
Lets us sleep.
And it’s with
Regret that
It wakes us.