lilac smell

This morning I wake
Silently, stealth, cat-like
Into a dirty morning
Aching, squinting, blind.

New York is wastrul.
I'm not even sure if that's a word (but it was running in my head).
It is the only word that seems to capture something
About the deadness, and waste slack fitfulness
The light here too bright, outlines bottles of pills and book spines
with ragged impunity at their content, their worth.

My sentences leave me like birds.
Distant scratchings before I can capture them.
I wake, with a toy animal clutched to my heart,
Central lozenge pill-box
Head between the two pillows like a child.

I used to go into my parents room after they got up
And lie in their bed
Center exact straightened

I had to lie just so with the covers pulled exactly straight to my chin
To see the angels in the yard
Bright flames blond angels that lived in our lilac trees.

That's how my mom knew I was special.
Because I had conversations with them each morning as the sun stripped the leaves of dew
Starched washed clean golden light
That poured silently into the room
with that purple lilac smell.

They told me to lie still as a pill-box.