Give us this day our daily oblivion,
I ask, craning my neck to check
the radio alarmís been set,
a tripwire tipped at 4:45 in the morning
to ďMusic Through the Night.Ē
Still technically night when we get up,
according to somebodyís calculations,
the fork of the newspaper delivery
manís headlights spearing the pre-dawn
porches across the street,
fog purling up around the trees.
Is it oblivion we want, I wonder,
trying to remember the day just passed,
a numb of habit and routine.
Our daily death,
sleepís been called, between the banks
of the river of forgetfulness, drifting.
And yet this rest is welcome,
redemptive, I think,
watching my wife undress.
This may not be where dreams come true,
but itís where they come.
If you have any thoughts about this poem, J.C. Rammelcamp
would be pleased to hear them