Alyssa Trivett writes

My Mind Goes to Bed, 11:08pm

 

I retire to my boxcar bed,

hoping to catch a Z or three.

I didn't break any mirrors

in last night's dreams.

The humming record player

is detached from the IV.

The shutters are shut and

slippers slide under the bed.

Thoughts flicker on and off

after he and I downed a thimble of wine.

I cannonball dive to sleep

and retire before ice skating

on disinfectant floors, 

come tomorrow.

For now, 

I’ll pleasantly rest my head

at an obtuse angle 

and turn off the words

for seven and a half hours.

Maybe a full eight,

if I'm lucky.