In the process of getting out of the bed,
my aching body feels like, I’m quite dead.
Stepping into the water, must be the sea,
boy I need to find a bathroom, I must go pee.
Searching for the toilet, where’s the door?
Feeling like I’m floating, feet lifting off the floor.
The room is ever-changing, it appears I’m lost,
am I losing my mind, at a growing cost?
An alarm is ringing, it’s a familiar morn sound,
my hand searching for the clock, can it be found?
I feel my body falling, is it part of a dream?
Hitting the wooden floor, seeing a bright beam.
“Honey, what are you doing, lying next to the bed?”
Asks my dear wife, she is kneeling beside my head.
“And about this large puddle, below your waist,
seeing your supply of urine being misplaced.”
So, are you thinking your morning could be any worse?
It’s embarrassing, this apparent old age curse.
My eyes opening wide, the dreaming comes to an end,
I try getting out of bed, but my knees won’t bend.
The bedroom is looking strange, could I still be asleep?
My eyes feeling heavy, no sound around me, not a peep.
Something is nipping at my toes as I throw off the sheet,
my puppy is licking the soles on the bottom of my feet.
The bed is feeling damp, did I not hold my pee well?
Reality is sinking in, I believe I’m living in hell.
My spouse is laughing at me, while picking up our pup,
her words, “be glad our young dog’s, not throwing up.
Tanka style poetry by David Andre (Kuhn) Davison.