I sleep with Me and Myself every night.
The bed is warm and comfortable.
I snore loudly,
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,
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