on a saturday in april in half-light
a motel room in the afternoon with the curtains drawn
my friends sleep
in sheer exhaustion
the sleep of wine
and the extremities of lives lived too brightly.
I read poetry
and paint my nails red
drink cold coffee
smoke too many cigarettes
paint my toe-nails too
and go back to playing solitare.
I watch their silent forms
and fight the urge to touch them
“for fear of waking them “ I tell myself.
Two children in their beds at night
when mother opens the door
to see the faces of her babes once more
before retiring to her own sleep.
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