Conscious


I sleep with Me and Myself every night.

The bed is warm and comfortable.

  I snore loudly,

Get overheated,

And then overly critical of the others

It is comical because it won’t change the dynamic

Or make a difference

To our stubborn little clique.

Why mess with perfection,

Asks Me?

We have our health

Although one of us has gotten 

A little chubby of late. I ignore this remark.

The one I call, Myself has a few bad habits too,

One involves a tangle with the Sandman.

Myself doesn’t always like to share

Steals the blanket and prefers dead pillows.

What’s a dead pillow, asks Me?

Is it flat? Has it lost its feathers?

Never mind, say I, who prefers a firm one.

The Me, who can be clueless, has no qualms or preferences. 

The one who is Me is easy. 

My flawed, inglorious circle

tolerates the judges, the fanatics, and the puzzled.

Plus, there is still room to stretch diagonally.

In fact, together, we absolutely

Love to lay between the sheets

the blanket pushed down toward the foot of the bed

Especially on hot, humid nights, while

Listening to the crickets chirping 

Soft rain wetting the earth.

The raptors hooting and caw cawing at the mob outside.

Yes, there’s a mob.

At those squeezed inside their closed reason,

Concerning the state of our sleeping arrangement.

Looking down their noses 

As if we were the problem.

And they were the blameless ones.

Daring each other to hurl that first stone.

 C. S. DeDona. 9-2-22

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