"Awakening" - A Poem in Response to Billy Collins's "Morning"

This is a poem I wrote in response to "Morning" by Billy Collins; a copy of his piece and an audio clip of he reading it can be found at poetryfoundation.org. It isn't written on the same subject but was inspired by his depictions of different times of day. It's a first draft and not my best work, but it's a start after my writing hiatus.

• • •

Awakening

The mornings were nice

when waking with him.

We stirred with the first signs of life,

musical yawning and cat stretches,

then dozed off again

entangled in arms.

We would be roused again

as blue sky afternoon began to peep

from under fog covers

and Ra slipped his golden fingers

through the blinds,

like a mother, coaxing us out of bed.

Our stomachs would chortle,

anticipating fresh coffee and oatmeal.

But some force kept us in bed.

I didn’t want to take my head

off such warm, bony pillow. His heartbeat

thrummed strong in my ear

as I listened to his steady breathing

in and out,

in and out.

That’s all it ever amounts to now.

It’s come to be expected,

and it hurts, sometimes

like serrated scissors

are gnawing inside. I clench my jaw

to keep my breath from escaping

in groans, waiting

until he finishes

and leaves

and I can just be

alone.

The mornings after

he is gone will always the same.

My room trashed with sandwich wrappers

scattered across the desk

where the textbooks should have been

and empty espresso cups strewn over the side table,

toppled and lined with mold.

The wrinkled sheets

are of ice, tucked under my comforter,

and snow blankets my bed.

Hesitation freezes me, my joints

rusted shut knowing I must crawl out

into the chill of this empty little dorm room.

The vacant bed opposite

where a roommate should have been

(another story not worth words)

seems to stare, that naked mattress,

mysteriously stained, just like mine

and all others you’d find in resident halls,

by strangers I’ll never meet.

The people outside, even ones I know,

seem stranger yet as I get to know them;

I have no time for them,

nor for me.
But then I find myself
wishing for that pillow with a heartbeat.