it's a gray day, a sleepy day
and i am content to lie on my bed
in the soft cool of still-new sheets
and watch the cars pass by outside the window.
From upstairs the footsteps of a neighbor crease the ceiling
echos from the hallow staircase.

yesterday i ate the ice pops
my feet beating a track across the dusty linoelum
to the freezer.
one by one, i cut them open and let the ice run down my throat
the sharp plastic rigid against my tongue
as menacing as a razor blade.
Don't forget to keep the reciepts
i think, my eyelashes crushed against the mattress
don't forget to reset your password,
look up the bus schedule, cook some pasta.

maybe the bed will become a work table,
with watercolor thumbprints on the sheet
cadmium and aquarmarine--
outline a marigold and a bottle of wine.

or i'll retire to the egg-crate print of the couch
watching the ghostly figures
repeat as they blare "Moment of Truth"
and my head opened to the possibility
that my neck is no longer made for support.

the time is tired, perfect, now that the sun is gone
ransomed by gray vapors --
held somewhere in the atmosphere
and my feet look forward to the respite