He stumbles into his clothes, his head full of sleep,
toothpaste kisses – his contracted nose, trying to keep the sickness in.
A dream of an old lover’s car – the colour, style, speed;
the teenaged debt and driving without a licence.
The way the sun hit the campsite, small planes overhead;
only a few rabbits now – the buildings, smaller.
Cats break our ribs as they race, chasing tails;
the day started, and the quiet corner in the bedroom is gone.
Calendar squares fill up with ink reminders,
a week missing, a long breath exhaled on an empty block.
My muscles decompress from the memory of a yoga mat;
that strange, disobedient body becomes mine, again.
One cat stashes invaluable treasures in the bottom of our bed,
while the other distracts us with hungry head-butts and spurts.
I listen to the colourful lives of others, now gone;
these eccentrics – drinking, marrying, running at the wall.
On my walk to work, I encounter some of the same
faces that show a vague recognition of me, meeting at crosswalks.
Wake with a dry mouth, no sound, no twist in your neck;
my grandma – her eyes practicing sleep, her ears wide open.