Washing the sleep oil off

It’s 7:46am, I’m washing the sleep oil off–
sick of tiredness
getting me–I love them, but only as “them–”
everyone else,
Could you look me in the eye?
And tell me that you are happy now?

It’s been a long time since I’ve stared at grass
not open fields with galloping equine
but backyard tuff
you mow yourself–
when you can
because you are so busy
with the work/commute/work/dinner/work/sleep/work.

It’s been a long time since I’ve stared at a leaf
not the pile for my enjoyment
but the loner
that rolls across the spring yard
because you are busy
with fun/commute/fun/dinner/fun/sleep/fun.

It’s been a long time since I’ve stared at wood grain
not paneling on cheap cabinets
but the home
the warbler calls from
when he can
because we are so noisy
–
Have you pointed to the light
and held a hand tight enough to melt
into one thought–diving into
someone who knows
when I lie to and with me
in the umbra of an oak tree.