constantly

in the still-dark, I am torn from the bliss
of my dream meadow by the conducted
cacophony of a snow-scraping backhoe
across the street. Alerted, my several
demons invade my fragile brain, placing
me on trial for dereliction of gardening,
participation in cheese eating rituals,
and worst of all, something I can’t
remember. I am driven out of bed,
participant in a race with no finish line,
no opponents, and worst of all, no
discernible starting point. I cannot
return to bed, to sleep, much less
to my dream meadow. This, constantly

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