I sleep with three others every night.

Their official titles are “ Me”, “Myself”, and “I”.

The bed is warm but crowded.

 The “I” in our cozy group snores loudly,

Gets overheated,

And is overly critical of the others.

The “I” is often comical because she refuses to change the dynamic

Or be the first to roll a little to the right or left 

In our stubborn little clique.

Why not give in, asks the “Me.”

We still have room for discussion

Although one of us has gotten 

A little chubby of late. 

The “ I” ignores this remark.

The one we call “Myself” has a few opinions too,

One involves a lengthy discourse with the Sandman.

She is the picky one.

The “Myself” doesn’t acknowledge the others. 

She steals the blanket and prefers dead pillows.

What’s a dead pillow?  asks the “Me.”

Is it flat? Has it lost its feathers?

Never mind, say the “I” who prefers a firm one.

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

The one who is the “Me” is easy. 

Our flawed, inglorious circle

tolerates the judges, the fanatics, and the puzzled.

Plus, there is still room to stretch diagonally.

In fact, during those rare times when we agree

We absolutely love to lie between the sheets with

The blanket pushed down toward the foot of the bed

Especially on hot, humid nights, while

Listening to the crickets chirping 

The soft rain wetting the earth.

The raptors, hooting just now at the mob outside.

Yes, there’s a mob. 

You remember, the “I” asserts

All the indifferent who are squeezed

 inside their closed minds,

Concerning poetry and 

The present state of our sleeping arrangement.

Looking down their noses 

As if we were the outliers.

And they were the clueless and unmoved.

Daring each other to hurl that first stone.

 Cornelia DeDona. 12-11-25