it’s cold in here, not something I say often
given as i am to finding it warm
since the heat blasts out though it’s shut right off
and my own body is more furnace than igloo.
my pillow smells like hairspray and lavender
and my quilt like a softener sheet
and my hand like soap from the kitchen sink
where I rinsed out my mug of tea.
i can’t get over how light my room is
even with no moon, even without clouds
that’s when the city makes the sky glow
the darkest orange behind sooty gray.
would I sleep with one of those masks
that lucy wore in bed with ricky
ah, but then the glowing alarm numbers
couldn’t tell me time was ticking away.
six hours to sleep, then five, then four
and i’m tired at the thought of getting up
the list of things to do always seems bigger
before the day arrives and i can get started.
then i will procrastinate
then i will choose to laugh instead of think
then i will pour cup after cup
of my blessing and my curse.
at this moment, though, i’m shivering
and i’m struck by how big this bed really is
and how different and the same every year ends up
and how long I’ve done it alone.
not alone, really, I have love
in the person of family and friends
funny, though, they sleep in other rooms
while the red numbers keep me company.
i have not lost faith in my future
and my past does not cause me despair
but I’d give up at least half of these covers
if the streetlights could shine in your eyes, too.
one a.m.
7