NaPoWriMo #20

Friday, April 20, 2018

April 20th  Occasional Poem

I wake up from my second sleep to a robin 
staring menacingly at me from the back yard as 
I heat the coffee, looking at me dead on, like robins 
aren’t supposed to do, like an angry school teacher 
without her glasses.  I’m an angry school teacher 
without her glasses.  Well, I have my contacts in, 
having put them in and fallen back asleep for a couple 
hours, waking unable to focus my eyes or move both 
my eyes in the same direction at once. A predicament, 
and such a funny metaphor for something that I wanted 
to write Jess about it, but couldn’t focus my eyes.  
While I slept, another friend wrote to tell me that her new 
couch is not like her old couch, but that I can sleep there 
if I like.  As I read them, the words take on the quality of 
a dream or of someone talking in her sleep, but whether 
it’s her sleep or mine isn’t clear. This morning my son 
asked his father why he always sleeps on the couch. 
“Mommy snores,” is what his father says.  Really he 
sleeps on the couch because he sleeps on the couch.
Before I could make myself move from the bed a second
time, I imagined a time lapse movie showing all the places 
we slept, his studio apartment in Brooklyn, my apartment
in upper Manhattan, our apartment together in upper 
Manhattan, from which we could see the Cloisters and 
the Hudson and all those trees, how we began rotating in 
and out of different rooms at that point, me sleeping in my 
office and then looking for another apartment, and then 
finding another apartment together in Brooklyn, which 
thankfully was haunted.  Before we left our place with 
the view, we once woke up having just had the same
dream— It’s so weird, one of us said, we were on this 
rickety rollercoasterWait, that’s what I was dreaming
the other said, that feeling of going up and up and wondering
 if it was going to hold us. Both of us stunned and staring 
at the ceiling from our mattress on the floor, thinking, 
I guess, about the inevitable descent. 

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