PROSE POEM JOURNAL ENTRY
November 14, 1969, Portland, Ore.

    by Dick Bakken

Morning, and I wake up in this bed or that one
with Jane or Ann or Mary or someone or alone,
lying on my back, palms turned up, or down,
staring at the ceiling, on Monday, on Thursday,
and outside the sun is radiant, or there is rain
or wind—again and again, here I am, waking
into some Wednesday or light rain or new face,
in this bed or some other—and that’s how it is.