The dog three stories down
barks in bullets and captions.
The cat three stories up
dislodges himself from his bed
to move his water bowl
and upturn his remaining food.
He’s the self-made pigeon of the hall,
the king of lumbering small,
and the czar of surprise wake-up calls.
The room is appropriately gray –
the weather hasn’t announced itself.
My eyelids stick to their lashes like the velum
in notebooks I don’t write in.
I have plans I refuse to write down
and just a half hour before the garbage trucks come.
You lie on your stomach, head underneath your pillow
and float through sleep.
I look at the place where your shoulder meets your arm.
It’s creased at this bend.
I’m in between morning and night, the dog and the cat,
sleeping and writing.
“Wake up!” I think, so I can tell you everything!