It moves slowly around your feet at night and slides up your legs. Tucks under the hollow caves of your capped shoulders. Lightly breathes down your neck. And whatever you’re dreaming of. Whatever car crash you’re in, cloud you’re on, curb you’re tripping over, it stops. It freezes and the all the fog of sleep turns sharply to that soft slither of sound. The spin of the record skids off and punches you awake, sending you to swiftly inhale dark bedroom air. And there you are, staring at the ceiling, the cold weight of something just there wrapped around your neck. With arms stick straight by your sides, you let your dozy head fall to the left and see the little shape of your baby sleeping deeply. If you’ve been shut eyed, if you spent the last few months, the last few years, unconsciously living. This is your sign. Life is time and time goes by. If it shocks you up at night, you lucky, lucky thing. Don’t fall back to sleep. Blink twice, give a nod, shoot little finger guns into the blackness in front of you. Let it know you heard it and you are going to listen from now on. Then roll over and wrapped your arms around that baby, pull her close, shut your eyes, and let that silent visitant slide back down under the covers, to the foot of the bed, on the floor, and evaporate under the door. Lift only one lid to see it fade then open your eyes when the morning comes and remember the promise you made.
xoxo
The Little Bukowski
