Good Morning, November Poem by paul wiener

I wake up in a hole and crawl
into a larger one, the day.
The daylight stops me like a wall;
the colors gather into grey.
It looks like I am here to stay.
There is no other place to play.

Where am I? In my bed, the room
extends, as far as I can tell,
into the house, this world, this womb.
The future locks me in its cell:
instead of beg, or kick, or yell,
I'll find a crack inside this shell.

There's no room here for lips or love,
for joy or pain to sink too deep,
for death, for anything to prove,
no place to throw things out,
or keep myself from falling back to sleep
and counting hours instead of sheep.

But look: here is the crack, the break
I've waited for. I'll make a deal.
I'll sing and trick myself awake
and trick myself again to feel
the future isn't time's to steal,
The hole was everything but real.