Cate Marvin

 

Why Sleep

I might miss something. The man who paces
his dog as my eyes walk with him between the slats
of blinds. The neighbor girl who always wakes
me anyhow with her cry, You're such an asshole!

And I've been inclined to agree since I heard
him tell her one four a.m. he hoped she'd die.
I might miss the nice blue and red flashing the cop's
car makes on the blind, as it hums outside—

as I strain to make out this low murmur, But she locked
me out, Sir. And I would not get to see the lovely
orange that will take this place down—and it will,
eventually, with all the gas pouring from my stove's

unlit pilot—Lovely, lovely flames! I want to watch
them consume us—and then I'd still be awake, standing
out on the chilly street, having saved myself, and having
saved myself I'd have to watch everything but me

go down. And don't I care for the neighbor girl?
Maybe I'd save her. I thought of taking a cake,
or some tea, down there tonight. But I was too afraid
she'd come to her door with an array of bruises

I'd have to address. Sleep? Those bruises are hers,
not mine. I lie, I lie. Here, inside the beat, deaf even
to the beat, only able to be the beat: muscle, muscle,
heart, thighs. When the cop car goes away, he stays.

And then there's another sort of cry. In the morning,
I rise ringy eyed—and I suppose I rummage
through nights like a raccoon, too, having to sort
out the rotten from the rotten. This night's food satisfies;

day's a porridge that will suffice. And what's there
to say in that plain light, when I see him out walking
the dog? Hello, hello—sorry about the disturbance
last night. I must have slept through it, I lie.