When he’s showered, and dressing in the red-lit room, I am lucid
and try to make my legs move. The neon numbers on the clock are abrupt.
Quiet. Soft scuffing of cat paws, pacing and digging;
the assembly of day, drawing this picture before stepping in.
I bring in music, a small device I will take anywhere;
replace the rhythm in my head and songs I made.
My memory betrays me – his fingernail split and I can’t
remember how; those coarse black hairs grow from the top of my head.
Pulsing the snooze bar and rolling on a wide ocean
of mattress, and pillows like flotation devices.
Finding sleep behind wet, stubborn eyelids;
you lying there, a disturbance in me and nothing to do with you.
His coat on and my eyes adjust, wanting this morning
and no desire for more sleep, the writer awakens.
Early morning complaints from the woman downstairs;
thin walls and a thick head, our need to start the day clean.
Two wrong numbers on Saturday morning, one cat vanished;
the other cat, like Velcro, bristles against my hand.
Sunday with no sun, a day of rest;
a day of rest before resting ends, and the moon, a warden.