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I wake from sleep unsettled,
anxious over something
almost forgotten -
almost, not quite.
When I am not pacing restlessly,
I am on the couch with a book
held loosely in my trembling hands,
nearly losing my wits each time
a car backfires or a door slams.
I call my sister, retired RN,
ask if I might be going insane.
She laughs, says she has days
just like this - slight guilt, anxious
over nothing knowable, unable
to sit and relax and then
she names it:
Dream Hangover.
It resonates and I am glad once again
to have her as my older sister,
the one who has always had
whatever knowledge I need,
from menstruation to motherhood
to menopause and all things in between.
I pick up my book, one she recommended,
find my place, take the towel off the phone
(don't ask and I won't tell),
prop open my front door.
The breeze is sweet and cool.
My hands are not trembling
but I wish wholeheartedly
for a video player that would record
and replay dreams,
especially those that bring hangover
without the blur of booze.

28 Sep 14

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great poem. love that last stanza.
 — mandolyn

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