The cleaner

When the senses aren’t there as a reference, the brain struggles to create a reality. I think I know why.

On the desk inside my head
Just before I go to bed
Are all my life’s events, stacked neatly there;
But, though I’ve never seen her,
In the night I’m sure a cleaner
Comes and throws the whole lot in the air.

Then my brain, or so it seems,
Tries to join them up in dreams;
And I’m sure it really tries to do its best;
But the sequence of events
In my dreaming makes no sense
As I scurry on a helter-skelter quest.

There are people I should know,
Who appear to come and go
Though I never seem to recognise their faces;
And the scene is always changing,
Never static, rearranging,
And I end up in some very funny places . . .

Often situations tricky,
And predicaments quite sticky,
Seem to come from nowhere just to test me out.
Will my dream-self stay alive?
Will I manage to survive?
I always do, despite a fleeting doubt.

At last my mystery cleaner
Comes (although I’ve never seen her)
To tidy up (although I can’t afford her).
Does she check there’s no mistakes
By the time my brain awakes?
I really hope she puts things back in order . . .

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