at two in the morning

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

AT TWO IN THE MORNING

I sleep on the living room sofa because my bedroom, which used to be a porch, sticks straight out into the dark and is made of glass, even the ceiling. Sometimes the moon is so bright you could read the newspaper at midnight right there in bed.  A while back I grabbed my pillow and a blanket and set up here on the living room sofa.  I forget when I made the move. Everything is so much longer ago than I think. If I try to remember, it’s more like having a couple of pebbles to turn over and over in your hand than actual thinking. I’ve never been completely clear on what thinking consists of, anyway. Thoughts, yes, I get what a thought is. But thinking? 

     At the moment it’s two a.m. Normally if I find I’m still awake at two a.m. I turn off the light and sleep in my clothes, but tonight I am wearing things with big buttons and the waistband of my pants feels tight when I lie on my back, and if I turn over it might wake Olive who is sleeping on my feet. At least I think it’s Olive. Anyway, I can’t start unbuttoning without my nightgown handy and my nightgown’s in the dryer three chilly rooms away. I don’t really want to move. I bet I forgot to turn the dryer on so it’s probably not worth getting up.

     Good grief, all of a sudden it’s two-forty. It didn’t feel like two-forty until I looked at my watch. If I don’t look, it’s more as if time is standing still. That’s the way I like it. Look at dogs-- they don’t give a shit. Oh good, Olive is having a running dream and I can undo the buttons of my pants and grab the blanket, if I make it snappy. It is Olive, because Daphne is on the loveseat. Quick! The hell with my nightgown and fuck the buttons. Good night you crazy-ass misbegotten beautiful world.