Waking

With no thought or plan, both hands surround

the nose to create a cozy tent where smells

of coffee, tendrils of chocolate and blessed

earthiness of mushroom all at once arise

as I sit draped in a blue bathrobe, warm

and relaxed on Winter’s Sunday morning.

Outside, the sky through spindly Melaleuca branches,

bright yet hazy, beckons. Suddenly, an old friend

arrives inside my reverie with little notice knocking

as he does in haste, and loudly, many times each day.

The tent in a flash is taken down as this urge

to piss steps onto center stage, the imagined

wealth of wondrous odors quickly severed,

dissolving like a doused bonfire.

I further wake to stand straight and march,

a loyal soldier with no time to waste

nor nose for dreams and contemplation,

towards the nearby bathroom door.