I let everyone sleep while I
pour over pillow stories,
wondering if
this is penance
for greedy moments of slumber
taken in lieu of
coffees shared between friends
tiptoeing around, foraging
for snacks and coffee at 5AM
slowly crinkling a Cliff bar
out of its plastic prison
I become what I hate
ruining soft hours with
incessant but quiet noise
who knew it only takes
six weeks to turn over
a lifetime of public grievances;
no rest for the modestly
wicked sure
changes people
odd hours make you powerful
the master of all sleep
except your own,
crawling into crooks of arms
whispering “it’s time to get up”
like the little voice deep down
beckoning me to jolt
awake and prepare
the day for the sun
to rise and strip me
of my squandered magic
pour over pillow stories,
wondering if
this is penance
for greedy moments of slumber
taken in lieu of
coffees shared between friends
tiptoeing around, foraging
for snacks and coffee at 5AM
slowly crinkling a Cliff bar
out of its plastic prison
I become what I hate
ruining soft hours with
incessant but quiet noise
who knew it only takes
six weeks to turn over
a lifetime of public grievances;
no rest for the modestly
wicked sure
changes people
odd hours make you powerful
the master of all sleep
except your own,
crawling into crooks of arms
whispering “it’s time to get up”
like the little voice deep down
beckoning me to jolt
awake and prepare
the day for the sun
to rise and strip me
of my squandered magic
✱✱✱
| Mel Spady is a non-binary writer from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. They have a voracious love of food, and naps. You can find them at @melspady on twitter, and their work at raspberrymag.ca. |
