An Extra Hour

Drowsy, groggy, half asleep,

Either an ass or a jumping sheep.

A midmorning nap would be great

But an hour of the day ain't cheap.

Awake, things can be thought

Thoughts can be done and done

Are we who use the sun as a blanket,

And the morning glories as pillows.

In sleep, things can be dreamt

Dreams can be lived but disappear through open eyes

Like air in a yellow balloon

As it zooms violently around a crowded room.

But at eight o'clock on a Monday morning

Nothing comes easy.  Scholarly speech is boring

And the desk looks to cradle.  And now, in this

Poetry class, angels of thought and demons of sleep are warring.