This morning the alarm, again

How many snooze minutes wuzzit?

I’m not good at math when

Busy ignoring the dawning of my day.

The cat pats my nose with her paw.

The ultimate sign, not so hygienic

Sleep extensions are officially over.

I ask her as she rubs her gums on my person:

Bathilde, do you dream of poetry?

No, of course not, she’s a pragmatic puss –

Her brain catalogues smells in odor emojis.

But I, in course of the night, unlike the cat,

Dreamt a sequence of poetry exchanges

Between myself and Shlomit’s mother.

Let me clue you in —

As part of Before Feet In Bed preparation,

I ate an orange, replacing energy lost at

A ridiculously long rehearsal for a Nozze di

Some truncated production that’s never able to

Work out the crinkles after

Four years of sporadic performances and the

Figaro, a former notary in real life, who can’t remember

The opera plot. Making me worry about

What happened before he decided to

Enter into the skin of a surly

Pedantic Figaro, rendered in hoarse baritone.

It was quite clear to me, hours later, that

My subconscious needed to devote

Its attention, breaking off from musical woes, to

A celebration of poetry with Shlomit’s mother.

I tell you

Oranges are wonderful in Israel.

You may not know this but,

Regarding my sinus infection,

Shlomit’s mother kindly drove me one morning

To consult Ariel Sharon’s old doctor

Given the minister’s health troubles, a media personality.

My friend’s mother navigated the highway signs

While she told me a Biblical story about King David.

An interaction that led us,

Even while dreaming years afterwards,

To exchange poetic notions.