Sleep is rapid transit. Accepting
the terms without reading first.
A poorly designed board game
put away, too complex to play.
Who is eagerly Tuesday? Tuesday,
fruit too heavy for the squirrels.
The vent catches curtain. You can
almost see the child hiding in it.
Afternoon’s tablecloth, yanked.
The dinner placement of it wobbles.
Afternoon’s late postal worker,
frumpily martial in his uniform.
Water welcomed through faucet,
then careful placement of water,
on bookshelves, the nightstand,
where it leaves its kiss of sweat.
You let the cat out on the deck.
His night is just getting good.
What to do before she’s home?
Study yourself in the off TV.
Arriving, her arms full of mail,
she fumes about a slow driver,
asleep at the wheel, delivering
roses to the wrong address.