The Neighbors, When the Train Arrives
The water weights away from the faucet, moistening the sink;
and I rise, for perhaps the fourth time, to retrieve a drink
My head doesn’t know the time that the clock keeps, and my bed
is cold in the distance. My couch
knows my presence. My indentation
is like a well taught lesson
to the gingham fabric and its internal connection
of metallic spring, stuffing… or whatever else might be between
the walls of the resale couch that we bought for twenty dollars.
The ceiling speaks with the neighbor’s squeaks
because they are not asleep either.
They talk loud enough to think that no one is listening, they
have sex as much because they believe that everyone else is sleeping.
Their exhausted box spring gives a grieving roar.
On the track, the last Metro Link train rolls by, announcing its arrival
at the Forest Park stop. It’s nearly one o’clock.
Then, the lovemaking slows down…stops, and then *slump*.
It feels too early to miss sleep, but insomnia has to start sometime.
The furnace is contagious in its wheezes and sneezes.
The clock gives a mouse-length cough every time the hand
moves a distance on the analog time keeper, on the wall,
which clicks louder than Buzz Aldrin’s heels on the areola-like moon.