Somnambulist

Somnambulist

Morning brings the discovery
that the items on the kitchen counter
have been moved around again.
The coffee maker is unplugged,

my sleeping self making a clear statement
that my waking self will ignore.
I don’t know why a glass has been filled
with water, bending morning light,

redirected, colors broken, beamed
against the wall. How did I know
just where to put it? The cat must have
seen it all (he never misses a thing)

but he isn’t saying. I imagine him
watching, giving his little head a shake,
to ask if there is some mistake.
(Miles to go, but I’m asleep.)

The lack of evidence disturbs,
and intrigues. There’s no sign
that I went out and thwarted, once again,
the evil Dr. Peculiar, bent on

destroying the world with his giant
army of alien carpenter ants.
And yet the world persists this morning.
How do you explain that?

.

Geez rainey, I was hoping for your factory seconds stuff, not first class sweet reveries such as this!

It reminds me so much of a period in my life where I’d be shocked on a morning to morning basis about what odds I was defying by waking up into the same dream-line, mundane and unremarkable as that dream’s plot line so clearly was… what kept calling me back into it?!

Thanks, Oughtist.

I liked that one.

Anyway, been a while, what you been up to R…?