On the other side of the bed,
with the hill of its back turned towards you,
The Night is busy writing down its dreams again.
You know about this.
The ratscratch of its pen across the page
and the muted creak of the mattress
wake you every morning these days,
long before the pale jabs of light,
slipping under the blinds, have a chance.
You lie there in buried silence,
wondering what might have emptied
from its subconscious into waking thought,
the absurdities, the tingling doubt.
How can you ever know?
Having already made
another appointment with its therapist,
it slides the slowly closed notebook
into the wooden cabinet beside it,
turns the tiny key,
shuffles off towards the bathroom.

Robert Ford’s poetry has appeared in a number of print and online publications, including The Interpreter’s House, Brittle Star, Butcher’s Dog and San Pedro River Review. He is a member of The Brewery Poets in Kendal, England. More of his work can be found at https://wezzlehead.wordpress.com.

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