I can’t sleep.
The sound of the fan drags its breath
like the fingers across a chalkboard.
The warmth of this room is arctic,
and the nightmares from last nights
dreams
have feared me from submission.
I thought the moon here would rest
easier,
bobbing above the waterline,
like a child running with a balloon.
As we subtract days from calendars
with a quick flick of the pen,
one after another,
until month two retreats…
three.
I lay and wait.
For the day to rise,
for the door to close,
for this hair to dry,
who wet soaks the pillow
and the head as it freezes in the
chill.
A minor annoyance.
Brevity is life.
