||[Aug. 18th, 2011|11:15 pm]
My knees are yawning
and all of your little brown hairs and my little yellow hairs tuck each other in.
Your eyelashes are already swaying to the thumbing bass beats
so I won’t ask you anymore questions about breakfast or job hunting or
your little brother’s new school.
When I pull the fuzzy quilt up over my face, my little pink toes
stick out and tickle the frayed
strings at the top of your Telecaster
my cracking ankles keeping time.
Your quilt smells like cinnamon
or your mom’s fading memories of
getting you back to sleep too early in the morning
riding around in the front seat of her old Chevy, windows down
Spanish singing stifled by the Houston humidity.
Or maybe I dreamed that up.