Lights Out

Lights dim.
In sleepy costume I tumble into my bed.
My face buries into the belly of my pillow
And lids close burdened with fatigue.
In feathery, drowny tones my pillow whispers ribbons of dreams,
Murmuring drowsy marshmallow rivers into my ears.
My pillow mothers my weariness.
My pillow tells me that I am sorrow's messenger.

When morning yawns through my window and gives a golden
Stretch, the voice scurries away.
Silenced and naked in the night's absence.
But . . . mum says pillows can't talk.



At bed time . . . the daddy long legs come.
In the occasion of darkness they
Have exquisite balls on my ceiling.
They come in fancy evening attire.
I hear the busy party chatter and I imagine eight legged tuxedos
And silver gowns that billow over the fine legs of lady spiders.
The string quartet is playing as they arrive in multitudes from
Corners afar to dance the darkness away.
But, I can never catch their parties.

When the crude light of my switch trespasses on their evening ball,
They vanish with the exposing instant.
They take their instruments and leave me a ceiling.
I long to see their upside down festivity.
When I return to the loneliness of my bed, I wish that I had been invited,
But . . . I only have two legs.