two hundred forty

some poems are not really
poems, but really statements,
shared facts of life written
on a page, perhaps. this poem
is not particularly grand,
or stellar
and perhaps a little too

tonight i write this poem
about a fact i was reminded of
as i breathed and lived
another day.

tonight i write
this poem to remind you how lucky
you are, i am to be alive tonight
to be able to read words
and process thought
to be comfortable in a bed
and filled with dinner
to be home and to have a home
to have someone to love
to be able to hug yourself
or have someone hug you
how lucky you are
i am
tonight because we never know
about tomorrow.

two hundred thirty-nine

the night felt short
and before i knew it
eyes needed to close
and bodies needed to
rest and the whole
day was lost in a puddle
of too-late-ness and
starlight. the night
felt too short and as
i dozed under the deep
blue blanket, i wandered
about you and when i’d
find the time, the night
time, to tell you the truth.

two hundred thirty-eight

how quickly the habit drops off
when the world gets shaken up
how quickly we let other things
seep in and take the place of
something we hold dear.

i am sorry, dear habit, that you
have been lost in the sounds of
the bustling city and the thoughts
of my turbulent mind, but i am
happy i can return here, to attempt
re-commitment again and again.

two hundred thirty-seven

all my poems should be about my love of sleep
and how now my body yearns for bed before the clock
reads ten and i find myself counting down the minutes
until it is socially acceptable for me to find the warmth
under the sheets and call it a day as my eyelids come to a close
full days are calling for deep sleep nights and all i can do is succumb

two hundred thirty-five

we both pass out on the bed
as though we have spent the day
on our feet and toiling the earth
when in reality i spent much of it sitting
and he, the dog, spent much of it sleeping
but we curl up together, listening to
our shared love lull himself to relaxation
over a computer screen and keyboard,
falling asleep despite our best efforts.