The sheets from my mattress
keep falling on the floor,
I wake up and I’m not sure
that I was sleeping,

because the quandary
that holds me here,
never feels as real as
when I am dreaming.

I see my mother
when I close my eyes,
but most nights
I won’t call her on the telephone,

because I know that living
means that I have to leave
so in a while, she can smile
when I come home

I no longer can restore
the refrigerator drawings
so I am questioning
the world I am creating,

I once pressed too hard
and broke my favorite crayon’s tip
or was that just
the heavy weight of living?