Snooze

Seven times a week I wake up different. A quick look in the mirror, a five-alarm snooze. Still recovering from the night that I watched 30 planes fall short of the runway at the same time. Still staring at the sky and the wings with the orange glow. Still grasping aimless for the polaroid I lost I didn’t know I had. I woke up in another morning, I woke up for the green grass. I woke up in the same sheets wrapped for the winter. I woke up with the same name but needed to be reminded that the picture pieces of dreams are only altered cinemas of sleep.