The Orientation of Your
Deathward Momentum

Two-fifteen in the AM,
my heart stops cold.

I sense hesitation,
those phantom fingers.
The fine adjustment
of my pink
chenille spread
as you wrangle the covers down,
slow and exacting,
over my exposed
ankles and toes.

My eyes flash-open
to a still and empty room.
A quarter-moon shines
through an arched transom
window, skyward just shy of
the three-bedroom ranch
across the street.

Curious about
the placement of constellations
I can neither name or identify,
I pull back the curtains,
search the night sky.

The feeder needs refilling.
I’ll have to mow tomorrow.

I switch on the light,
grab my readers.
Settle in with
Pillars of the Earth.

Nothing’s changed.

I make it
through the night
and don’t die,
always a good sign.