For some, the music of morning
is a cello or Berlioz or jazz;
for others, the green flag of day
waves to a twelve-bar blues.

And they're right, I guess:
daylight wears a song,
though giving daytime's opening
frame a soundtrack seems

too easy.  It's too human
to think that even if we laze
in bed, the filling of a linen
sandwich, somewhere the fabric

of forenoon rubs against itself
making a little noise
of waking, if not actual music,
per se.  Inside our pulsed

shells, it's too much:
too heavy a weight of quiet
upon our frail audiophile
souls for mornings to be silent.

And yet we wrestle
with our better, more
punctual selves to stay
in bed a few minutes

longer, to hit the snooze
one more time to quiet
the Mariachi band slicing
out of the alarm clock,

returning morning and life,
for that matter to its natural
state, devoid of marching cadences,
petty dramas playing on, scoreless.

           Jorge Sánchez
JORGE SANCHEZ is currently completing his M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the University of Michigan, and has work forthcoming in The Iowa Review.  This is his second appearance in The Adirondack Review.