I've never slept well, but lately, I can't sleep at all.
Sarah gets up for work and from the living room
I mute the early-morning news
on the TV and listen to her move around the bedroom.
Both dogs wake up with her and I take them outside
wearing shorts and a sweatshirt.
It's too cold for just shorts this morning.
Last night I made us supper and ate mine
out of a huge bowl meant for decoration,
Sarah told me, while she laughed at the bowl's size on my lap,
its scale becoming bigger as I dipped my fork into it,
stabbed up bites of food.  I worked the same job
for 9 years before I moved out here
to her 4 months ago and haven't had a real job this whole time.
She pats me on the head before she leaves for work,
says I should try NyQuil at night to get me to sleep.
"Yeah," I say, "do you need anything done today?"
One of the dogs has been itching lately
and there's fur on the carpet at the front door
where he sits most of the time.  "Yeah,"
I say, faking a yawn, "I'll vacuum it up."
She leaves and I succeed in a half-sleep and half-wake
to the same news story on the TV
I watched an hour ago, one dog's leaning
against the door scratching,
the other's across the house barking softly,
mistaking it for someone's knocking.