Last night,
a storm woke me
by dancing on my roof
and, giving thunder a twirl,
it began a steady pitter-patter,
which gave me cause to open one eye
and watch the ceiling fan
spin and spin,
hoping I'd return to
laying on the beach with you
or winning the lottery
(boy, that one was hard
to wake up to),
but instead,
I found myself making lists
and reminders of what to do
upon waking:
pack the bags,
make the sandwiches,
read the other lists...

"There are so many places to be,"
I remember thinking
before drifting off again,
but maybe right here --
maybe in that place
between comforter and pillow case
that glows warm and cold
like a hopeful picture of the Earth
from the Hubble telescope --
maybe in this container
where I am safe
from the elements, at least --
maybe this is not where I should be
as, simply, where I am,
for now,
with only the sound of raindrops
on my eyelids
and the same gentle fan
whirring above me
as it has since the days of my adolescence,
ushering me back into some bewildering unknown
for the next several hours
or until the cawing alarm clock
beckons me to grow up,
grab my lists,
(futile, failing)
and get out.


Copyright © 2016 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

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