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.